Lords of the Pitt
by SentientSurfer
Summary: High Lord Ashur is forced to turn to a lowly slave girl for help when a mad wasteland warlord lays siege to his dark kingdom. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**- 1-**

**Soliloquy**

The crowd of more than two hundred raiders milled about, hot and irritated under the withering afternoon sun. The different raider factions shoved and jostled one another, trying to grab gulps of water from several Brahmin skin canteens the Marauders were passing around the masses. Those whom had already had their fill tried to push their way into the few spots of precious shade cast by a clump of dead trees towards the center of the mob.

There was a small, makeshift stage in front of the raiders. It was little more than a well piled jumble of rocks that stood empty at the moment. The raiders were getting restless waiting to finally hear from their elusive commander. Their leather armor had grown hot to the touch and their lips were dry and blistered from spending over an hour standing exposed under the sun.

The wind picked up for a moment and blew a wave of irradiated dust into the eyes of the boisterous, irritable crowd.

"Fucking come on already!" a raider in a spiked cuirass screamed. As he wiped a stream of hot sweat off of his bald head, he was joined by a chorus of complaints from the other factions.

As their moans and whining grew into a deafening roar, Wyoming skipped on top of the empty rock platform. He held his muscled arms up into the air until the murmurs of crowd grew quiet.

Wyoming was a tall, mountain of a man, with a lanky frame and broad shoulders. He was wearing blue combat armor which was in perfect condition. Across the front and back of his armor was the insignia of the Marauders - a drawing of a woman's severed head, being held aloft by a hand which tightly clutched her short, pixy hair. Blood streamed down from the woman's eyes like falling tears.

On top of Wyoming's own head was a shining golden helmet. The helmet was Greco-Roman style; a mohawk of fiery red hairy Deathclaw fur ran like a crest down its center and off the back. The luxurious fur flapped in the desert wind.

At Wyoming's side was an ornate short sword, a little over two feet long, with an evil looking blade. It was tucked into a silver sheath which clanked with each of his steps. Opposite the sword hung three human scalps, tied to Wyoming's belt by the scraggly hair that was still attached to their shriveled skin. They served as macabre reminders of his violent, boundless temper to everyone he came across.

Wyoming put his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. The six other Marauders in the crowd, all wearing new looking combat armor with the Marauder insignia, scampered up in front of Wyoming to keep and eye on the crowd and to keep a safe buffer between the raiders and their leader.

Before Wyoming spoke, his head and mouth jerked to the side in an involuntary facial tick. He collected himself and looked down at the crowd.

"Oh ye, ye of little faith and ye of no faith at all. Ye band of cut throats, bandits, brigands, bounty hunters, drunkards, foul-mouthed-loafers, highwaymen, idlers, loiterers, murderers, muggers, rogues, rapists, slavers, and smugglers!" Wyoming paused, he was out of breath and almost panted for a moment from lack of oxygen.

He took an exaggerated gulp of air and continued, "ye of little minds and even smaller manhoods. Ye sons and daughters of the ignorant bitch wasteland who still suffer to suckle from her meager teat. . ._you_ doth ask of me to deliver to thyne a rousing speech? A stirring oration to raise your heads and tweak your hearts for battle? A sermon on thyne mount to draw the true warrior out from the lowly coward that doth dwellith within you?"

Wyoming paused.

The mass of raiders gaped on, mystified by his bombastic speech.

"**WELL FUCK YOU!** Fuck you, ye who hath no stomach for this fight. Those who hold their manhood so cheap deserve little more than a bullet to the back of the brain from thyne steely weapon. Ye will die unmourned and unhonored, suffocated by the waters of the rushing Acheron, immolated by fiery Plegethon. Ye's last moments shall be spent wallowing naked and broken, crying to your bitch mothers, from the muddy shores of the pitiless Styx. Such shall be the lot of all of the cravens, deserters, and detestable, pusillanimous scalawags among you."

Wyoming pulled up his helmet a bit which allowed him to spit off the rocks in front of him. His head jerked to the side once more before he continued.

"Only the few, the happy, bold few who chose to be thyne brother and fight with me upon this day for the honor of dear King Minos's only daughter, she whose cold lips hath launched this wasteland armada, a glittering _Grand Armee_. . .only _those_ brave few shall reap the great bounties of Lord Ashur's dammed kingdom; the glimmering gold, the shining steel, the sparkling jewels of his soon to be shattered crown. Only _those_ few shall gnaw upon the bleached bones of thyne enemies and drive them from their foul pit into the icy embrace of swift footed death. Only _those_ few shall live to see God's heavenly kingdom of the great tomorrow."

Wyoming hopped off the rock stage and paced in front of the raiders. They all seemed to edge back from his erratic, frenzied presence.

"But now. . .now but soft. . .me thinks that thyne time has come, and thy time is thyne time. Time to gather thyneselves for the good fight tomorrow. Time to man the parapets and ready thyne siege engines. Time to burn the accursed Pitt and send all who dwellith within back to hell. Time to flay the cowards amongst us and wear their dried skins like Brahmin hides into battle! Time to run the wicked Lord out upon the rail and stick his head upon my pike! Time for all to hold your swords on high with banshee roar and charge the hot gates of Lucifer's three rivered kingdom! Time to march **ALL** banners, onward to **HELL**!

**- 2 -**

**The Steel Yard**

Kylie tried to slow her breathing. When she breathed too fast her chest would begin to ache, and she would feel dizzy and nauseous until she was able to burp out all of the excess air. She closed her eyes and focused all of her thoughts and energy on her breathing. She felt her chest expand as the air was pulled in; she lingered on the full feeling of it inside of her lungs. She pursed her lips and let it flow out in one smooth motion. With total concentration she was able to drown out her fear and stifle the terrified screams of the desperate men and women next to her.

Kylie and the other slaves had been forced down a narrow chute on the second floor of the Pitt's steel mill. After they tumbled down it, they had landed inside of a large iron cage. The cage sat at the edge of the steel yard - a sprawling expanse of rusted rail cars, broken buildings, twisting train tracks, and crumbling power plants. The sky above the cage looked gray and yellow and the air was acrid with smoke and rads. The omnipresent pollution that had settled over the miserable city like a brown fog turned every day into a depressing dusk and bleached exposed skin into white ash.

The slaves cowered against one another behind the thick bars of the iron cage. There were ten women and ten men inside, all huddled together, listening to the animal groanings of the legions of savage trogs that prowled the urban labyrinth beyond.

Two raider guards stood atop the iron cage. A wall of floodlights was setup directly behind them. The bulbs bathed the area around the cage in bright white light which blinded the trogs and kept them at bay.

Occasionally, a trog would poke its ugly head out from behind a building or down from a drainage pipe. It would glare at the slaves like they were a fresh meat. One of the raiders standing on top of the cage would then take a shot at it, invariably missing, and scaring the beast away for a moment, before it or another trog would again poke up its head in a never ending game. There were thousands of trogs in the Pitt. More trogs than slaves and their raider bosses combined.

"Oh my God, oh my God," a slave girl rubbed up against Kylie, ruining her concentration. The girl was barefoot - she had on a filthy skirt and nothing else. Her arms were stained black and orange from months of toiling in the mill. The poor girl's eyes were glassed with fear and she was paler then chalk. Drool stuck in the corners of her blistered moth as she shook and panted, "I don't want to die. . ."

The raiders on top of the cage laughed at the pathetic girl below and spat down on her. One of the men in the cage hollered obscenities at them and stuck his hands up between the bars. The raiders stomped down on his hands with their heavy boots until he cringed in pain.

Everett, the malevolent mill Foreman, hopped down from a window above the cage. He landed on top of the bars with a thud. The slaves below ducked their heads as he peered down between the bars with cruel brown eyes. He was a middle aged man with buzz cut hair and a graying mustache. His face was crisscrossed with old white scars and his hands were heavily calloused from working the steel mill since childhood. He was the oldest and highest ranking slave in the Pitt, the other slaves treated him like one of the bosses.

"All right grinders," Everett smiled and began to pull on the chain that opened the cage door, "you all know the drill. Each of you brings ten ingots back here as fast as you can."

Slowly, Everett hauled the heavy front bars of the cage up into the air.

The trogs hidden in the darkness reacted to the grating noise of metal and chain like Pavlovian dogs. They licked their dripping lips and flicked their tongues, ready for the upcoming feast.

After the bars were fully raised, the two raiders fired their rifles into the air to try and scare the slaves out.

"Go you sacks of shit, get out there and bring me those ingots," Everett snarled, "don't come back into the light until you have at least ten of em!"

The raiders pointed their weapons down into the cage and took aim at the frightened slaves as if they were about to fire.

"No, no!" the slaves shoved one another forward trying to escape from the cage. The pathetic girl next to Kylie was nearly trampled in the frightened stampede. She crawled out of the cage and huddled under the floodlights.

After the men and women exited the cage, they all stood shocked in one large mass. Confused and scared out of their wits, they didn't move, the whole group was immobilized by fear.

_Bang._

A raider standing atop the cage shot the slave who had stuck his hands through the bars in the back of the head. The man collapsed onto the ground. His legs twitched. Blood soaked through his tattered, dirty clothes and pooled around him. A few of the other slaves screamed. The terrified slave girl threw up on Kylie's naked toes.

"Get the fuck to work!" the raider shouted. He fired a few shots into the pavement between the slaves and the cage. They crackled like popcorn on the blacktop.

The panicked men and women scattered into the darkness.

(**********************************************************************)

_Crunch._

Kylie heard the sickening sound of bones cracking. The poor slave girl below her was being eaten alive by a pack of fledging trogs that had found her hiding under a boxcar. They had dragged her, kicking and screaming, into an open section of the steel yard before they had begun to feed.

The girl moaned for only a moment before her small body was torn apart by the frenzied, inhuman mob.

Kylie watched the trogs feed from her perch atop a small building. She had found a rusty ladder tucked inside an old dumpster in the steel yard after the initial chaos of release. She had pushed the ladder up against the building, using it to climb on top of the roof. She had remained in that hiding spot for the past two hours, nervously watching the trogs all around her leap from building top to building top, tracking their terrified prey.

Presently, Kylie lay motionless in her position, hoping no trog could see her as she watched a pack of the beasts feed on what was left of the girl.

Trogs had once been people. The pollution and radiation in the Pitt had mutated them into hideous abominations. They looked like they had lost their outer layer of skin. Their bodies were dark pink and slimy, their arteries and veins were exposed to the dirty air. They had long flicking tongues and hell red eyes. They couldn't speak but could howl like ghosts. Their gums had receded into their skulls leaving them with long white teeth which they used to gnaw on bones.

The group of six trog fledglings continued to chew on the dead slave girl. One lifted up her arm and bit off her thumb with a crunch. It swished her finger around its mouth with its serpent tongue and sucked the warm flesh off the bone.

Kylie felt ill. She closed her eyes to the gore and pivoted her head away, looking down to the other side of the steel yard. The initial screams of the slaves had died down over the past two hours. The intermittent cries of men and women being hunted down and eaten had given way to an eerie calm. Now the steel yard was silent, save the occasional howls of the trogs.

Kylie wondered if any of the other slaves were still alive. They could be hiding like her, or silently gathering up ingots from the yard.

_Ingots. . ._

When Kylie squinted into the perma-dusk to her left she could see two specks of silver light twinkling from a high metal shelf. They were next to a old dumpster on top of a rusty loading dock. As Kylie focused on the twinkle, the image crystallized into two steel ingots, lying beside a broken auto transmission. The ingots weren't too big; they were lumps of pure steel molded into one foot bars. Since metallurgy was difficult out in the harsh wastes, and all iron mining had ceased, the steel ingots had more value then gold.

Kylie tried to think of any easy way to slip down from her perch and snatch up the ingots. Hiding may save her life for the moment, but she knew there would be no hope of surviving out here for very long. There was nothing to eat and nowhere safe to hide from the hideous predators. The raider bosses had sealed up every entrance and exit to the yard, save on the south side, where the yard gave way to the crumbling sections of the Pitt still overrun by trogs.

There would be no escape from the yard or the vicious trogs without ten ingots.

Kylie slipped over the side of the building and clawed her way down to the ground as quietly as she could. Once she reached the blacktop, she remained in place for a moment, panting, and waiting to see if she had been spotted. Wind blew down into the yard from the tall hills that surrounded the city. The cool air fluttered what was left of Kylie's tattered slave dress and chilled her to the bone. The smoggy air made her choke. She fought back a cough and focused on the loading dock and the ingots.

A large trog savage paced back and forth atop a rail car off to Kylie's right. It was the only beast she saw near her. When it began to walk away, Kylie shuffled on her hands and knees over to the loading dock. Once there, she watched as its glistening head bobbed up and down and then disappeared from view.

The ingots were on a large metal shelving unit, on the fourth shelf up from the ground, which was a bit over Kylie's head. She crept up to the shelf and blindly fumbled for the ingots with her fingers. As Kylie tried to flick one of the ingot's corners over the edge to get a better grip on it, her eyes locked on a strange yellow object in front of her. It was an old circular saw, used for cutting lengths of metal pipe. The round blade was old and rusted. Its yellow handle looked well worn.

Kylie looked up again and could just see the ingot poke out over the shelf's edge. She jumped up to snatch it, but her fingers missed. As she went to try again, she heard a loud moan.

The trog savage from the rail car was now less than ten feet from Kylie, shuffling towards her on its spindly arms and legs like a hellish insect. The savage's tongue flicked out and came within inches of her face. Viscous goo dripped down from its slick skin. Its lips retracted over long white teeth.

Kylie's eyes widened, her heart raced. She was just about to scream, but instead she spun around and snatched the circular saw from the shelf. The savage lunged at her, but she darted around the nearby dumpster before it could make contact.

The creature swiped its long red arm at Kylie's head as she ducked out of the way. Its sharp claws gauged the side of the dumpster with a sickening squeal. Kylie fell backwards onto her butt. The cold blacktop was freezing. She kicked her legs, pushing herself backwards as the savage charged. As the beast bore down on her, she frantically fumbled with the rusty saw.

_Neeeeeewwweeeeeiiiiiiing_

The circular saw whined to life. The savage lunged right into the blade; Kylie forced the rusted metal into the creature's face. The saw's crusty teeth bit through the savage's flesh and bone, splitting its skull and spraying globs of blood and bits of gore all over Kylie and the surrounding loading dock.


	2. Chapter 2

**- 3 -**

**WildMan**

"Hahaha," the Wildman cackled as his body shook. He studied Ophelia up and down. She was lying on a small cot in front of him. It was part of a makeshift campsite that sat high above the steel yard on a gangway between the roof tops of two old power plants.

Ophelia's hands were tied to the top of the cot. She pushed her head up on the bed so she could better see the Wildman. He had just finished a large swig of vodka and was now convulsing as the alcohol dispersed into his system.

The Wildman was suffering from the disease that caused Pitt dwellers to mutate into trogs. He was well on his way now. His skin was pinkish and blotchy. His body convulsed with involuntary tremors. However, for the moment he still had his wits about him.

"Wawa. . .want sum fooood?" the Wildman dropped the liquor bottle and grabbed a box of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes. He crushed the box in his spasming hands.

"Sure, sure, just untie me. Let me sit up so I can eat," Ophelia tried to give him a disarming smile. Her green eyes darted. She studied the campsite for any way to escape for the umpteenth time. All she saw was another cot, a rusty locker, a makeshift stove, and a tiny breakfast table. . .

"Ca-ca- kay," the Wildman leaned over Ophelia. She tightened her body. He put his knees on the foot of the bed and his hands on either side of her head. The smell of his musky, dirty clothing was overpowering. His breath smelled like mold and alcohol.

"Oh," Ophelia winced. Something freezing cold came to rest on her belly. With her arms tied over her head her long sleeve shirt was pulled up, leaving her stomach exposed. She glanced down to see what was so cold. It was the Wildman's pistol. It was resting next to her belly button.

The Wildman looked down at what was bothering her. He stood up from the bed and pulled his pistol from his belt. He then placed it on the small table behind him and turned back to Ophelia with a smile.

"Better?" he leaned over her again and went to kiss her on the lips.

"The. . the food," Ophelia groaned, "untie me so. . ."

The Wildman nodded with insane energy. He snatched the box of snack cakes from the dirty gangway and tore the box open. He then clutched a single one of the wafers in his dirty fingers and pushed it towards Ophelia's mouth.

She flailed her head back and forth to avoid the dirty food. As she craned her neck to the side, she could see a dark shape creeping up behind the Wildman from the shadows. It was the online of a filthy woman, spattered head to toe with blood.

Ophelia stopped struggling and let the Wildman feed the wafer to her. He focused all of his attention on getting it into her mouth.

Kylie snatched the pistol from the table and shot the Wildman in the back of the head. He slumped down onto the gangway next to the cot.

Ophelia's eyes shot to Kylie. She studied the blood soaked girl. Kylie was wearing a short, tattered slave dress and a twisted leather bracelet. She had shortly cropped black hair that bobbed above her ears - the required hairstyle for all steel mill slaves to ensure their hair didn't get caught in the machinery. Her eyes looked glazed and exhausted.

"Please, untie me," Ophelia struggled on the cot, "he has a knife on his belt."

Kylie nodded. She reached down and pulled the knife from the Wildman. Kylie nervously to cut Ophelia free. Ophelia didn't look like a slave to her; she had long greasy hair and was wearing an old merc's uniform with camouflaged pants and a thick woolen shirt. She rubbed her raw wrists and shot up from the bed once Kylie untied her.

"Thank you," Ophelia began. Her eyes darted around the gangways, "You're a slave, aren't you?"

Kylie nodded.

Ophelia turned around and stuffed some food from the Wildman's locker into her pockets, "follow me. I can help you."

(****************************************************************)

"Its in here," Ophelia led the way.

She and Kylie had crisscrossed the steel yard over and over again from the high gangways above. Their circuitous path had led them to the very top of an old supply plant. Standing on its roof was a large iron pipe almost four feet in diameter.

Ophelia ran her fingers across the face of the pipe until her hands came across a gap in the metal. She dug her fingernails into it, and pulled a two foot section of the pipe away, revealing a small hole.

"In here," she wiggled inside with Kylie at her heels.

Kylie squinted inside of the dark pipe. Ophelia replaced the door panel and then struck a match to light a tiny gas lamp that hung from the arched ceiling. As the pipe became dully illuminated, Kylie studied her surroundings.

At her feet was a thick, itchy burlap mat that acted as a bed. It had a sac filled with old cardboard at its head like a pillow. Around the makeshift bed were heaps of assorted junk, a few damaged books, some empty bottles, a pair of scissors, and a pile of clothes. Ophelia dug into her pockets and added a few of the Wildman's snack cakes and Nuka cola bottles to the clutter.

The top of the pipe was just over Kylie's head. She was too tall to stand inside and had to move around on her knees. As she studied the long pipe and pondered what lay down in the blackness beyond the reach of the light, Ophelia handed her a snack cake.

"As long as we're quiet the trogs won't find us," Ophelia took a sip of Nuka cola from one of the Wildman's bottles.

Kylie looked at the box of snack cakes she had been handed and then back to the strange girl, "you live in here?"

Ophelia nodded, "uh-huh. I've been hiding here for two months."

"Are you a. . .Wildman?"

"No, not yet. . .I used to be a slave in the steel mill. I just couldn't take it in there. The noise, the heat, the smoke. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't even breath. One day there was a riot. While it was going on and the bosses were distracted, I slipped out of a window into the steel yard. I found this hideout and have hidden here since."

Ophelia pushed around some of the junk. She snatched a small pistol from under a pile of old shirts and tucked it into her pants. She then shifted the clutter so she could sit more comfortably. She had never had a visitor in her hidey-hole and it felt more cramped then ever, "were you a mill slave too?"

Kylie leaned back against the cold pipe, "for a few days. I thought I would either die in there or I could die out here so I volunteered to get ingots."

"You _volunteered_?"

"It was so horrible in the mill I didn't think it could be worse outside," Kylie pushed a snack cake into her mouth. She grimaced. It tasted terrible.

Ophelia watched her cringe, "sorry. There's a lot to scavenge out on the yard, guns, clothes, everything I've got here; but almost no food, just what the Wildmen bring in when they're banished here. That's how I got caught, I tried to raid one of their dens."

"What are they?"

"People who are turning into trogs, slaves and the bosses. They kick them out here once they start to change and get violent."

Kylie nodded. She fiddled with the back of her tattered slave dress. She was only wearing threads; most of her skin was exposed and caked in trog blood. She felt cold to the touch. She tried to hide within herself while adjusting the two steel ingots she had tied around her waist.

"I have something . . .," Ophelia leaned over and reached down into a section of the pipe that was hidden from the dull light. She pulled up several steel ingots and laid them on the clutter at Kylie's feet.

Kylie watched them glitter in the lamplight.

"You can take these. With them, the bosses should let you back into the city. Consider it a thank you."

Kylie leaned over and put her hands to the cold metal, "you found all of these?"

"They're lying all over. I've been saving them to trade. . . sometimes the bosses send mercs out here to get ingots. I thought I could trade them for food or water. . .but I haven't seen a merc in a long time. . .you can take them."

"Why don't you take them back? They'd let you back in-"

Ophelia furiously shook her head, "I'm not going back there. . .they'd shoot me for running away."

Kylie began to bundle up the ingots, "thank you."

Ophelia watched as Kylie tried to secure the ingots to her body. She gave Kylie a grubby sweater so she could begin to warm up.

The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Ophelia wanted to break the tension but didn't know where to begin. She hadn't had started a conversation with anyone in a long time.

Kylie noticed her discomfort, "tell me your name."

"Sorry. . .Ophelia."

"Kylie."

Ophelia tried a friendly smile, "where are you from?"

"An old farming town called Lancaster. They grow food there. My family worked in a trade caravan, I was a guide. I'd help lead the caravans from Lancaster to D.C. and Adelphia. I was headed west to the Erie Gap when a slaver party ambushed us. I wound up here."

Kylie stopped, waiting for Ophelia to speak up. Ophelia was silent for a while, "what about you?"

"You. . . you'll think I'm an idiot when I tell you. . ."

"Why?" Kylie tried to stretch out under the clutter. The cramped quarters made her joints sore.

"Because I _am_ an idiot," Ophelia made a sarcastic laugh and then paused.

She collected herself to continue.

"My father was a powerful man. He was a king-"

"A king?"

Ophelia nodded, "he was. . .is king of a city west of here. He loved me, but he was always more focused on staying king. He arranged for me to marry the son of one of his top generals. . .but I was already in love with Johnathan. He and I agreed to run away so we could be together. He had family in D.C. We were trying to make it there when we were betrayed to slavers. I was sent here, I haven't seen Johnathan since."

Kylie waited for Ophelia to continue.

"Stupid right? I had my life made and I threw it all away to become a slave and live in the steel yard like a Wildman. . .," Ophelia wiped her face, "love does funny things-"

"Do the bosses know? Wouldn't they ransom you back if your father is so powerful?"

"I always thought about telling them, but I know that my father and Lord Ashur _hate_ each other. I doubt Ashur would try to ransom me. I figured if I told the bosses, Ashur would make my life even more miserable," Ophelia shuttered at the thought, "_if_ they even believed me. I mean I don't have any proof of who I am."

Kylie finished fastening the ingots together. She heard the howl of a trog echo through the pipes.

Ophelia saw Kylie's nervousness, "don't worry, the pipe is sealed on either end. . .you'll be fine if you want to get some sleep. You look tired, you should get some rest. It will be safe here. I'll keep watch until you wake up."

Kylie put her head down, resting her cheek against a balled up pair of blue jeans lying on the cold, metal floor. The pipe rattled from the wind. She closed her eyes

After Kylie fell asleep, Ophelia blew out the gas lamp. She could hear Kylie snore through the darkness.

**- 4 -**

**Mamluke**

Kylie had to squint as she walked down the last ramp to ground level. The entrance to the steel mill was a few hundred yards ahead of her. In front of the entrance door was a line of spotlights that pierced through the darkness. In front them stood a squad of raiders. They had their weapons aimed and ready, watching her approach. They were aggressive and edgy, unsure if the half dressed woman approaching was a slave or a Wildman.

"Who are you?" one of the raiders called out. He appeared as no more than a black silhouette to Kylie who struggled to peer through the light.

"I'm a slave. I have ten ingots," Kylie motioned to her side. She couldn't tell what the raiders were doing so she stopped walking forward and stood still.

The raiders could now see her clearly in the light. They studied her up and down and muttered to each other. One of them reached down to his side and passed an object around.

"The gun," one of the raiders shouted, "drop it on the ground. Now!"

Kylie grabbed the Wildman's pistol. She tossed it off to the side. She knelt down and put the ingots on the blacktop. She then put her hands in front of her eyes. She still couldn't see the raiders through the bright lights. She bit her lip, worried they were just going to shoot her and take her prize.

"Ten ingots huh? Well aren't you a tough one?" one of the raiders commented through the darkness.

Kylie stood in place. She put her hands down and peered back into the darkness to see if a trog was sneaking up on her.

"Put this on," a raider commanded.

Kylie saw one of the silhouettes toss something in her direction. It clanked at her feet. It was a round metal collar. Where the collar fastened together was a large metallic box. It looked like a bark collar you would put on a dog. Kylie hesitated to put it on.

"Put that on or stay out here," one of the raiders sneered.

Kylie put the collar around her neck. It snapped shut with a heart sinking click. The metal felt cold and snug on her skin. She didn't see any way to unlock it.

"Now come over here. . .and bring those ingots."

(****************************************************************)

Kylie had never seen this particular section of downtown. It was high up on one of the catwalks, which were forbidden areas for all of the new slaves. Downtown was the only place in the Pitt where slaves where allowed free reign. They could idle in its large square, sleep in one of the open barracks that lined its side, or eat in the filthy mess hall. All the while, the raider bosses peered down from the catwalks above and taunted them to get back to work.

The square below was the place Kylie had first been taken when she was brought to the Pitt. She had been like a terrified animal. The bright spotlights around the city blinded her, the clamor of the mill deafened, and the horrible conditions numbed her soul.

As she looked down now, she could see her old dirty cot lying next to a wooden pillory. A young man was locked into the horrible device. He tried to flex his muscles to keep his body from atrophying.

Kylie was pushed forward from behind. She continued to walk down the catwalk above downtown. A pair of raiders in her path barely parted to allow her through.

One of the raiders look her up and down, "Fresh meat huh?" He ran his hand up her leg and smacked her exposed thigh, "well go on."

Kylie gritted her teeth. The collar bit into her neck.

The box on the collar locked around Kylie's neck was packed with explosives. The two raiders leading her down the catwalks had a control device to the collar. If she failed to do what they said they could activate the explosives and decapitate her at any moment. If they didn't like the way she talked to them or the way she looked at them, they could kill her without a thought. If she tried to remove the collar or tamper with the box, the collar would detonate.

She had never felt so helpless and weak. She submissively followed every order.

"Stop," one of the raiders smiled at his power over her, "see those rooms up there?"

He pointed towards a seven story building in front of them. A large section of the building's outer wall had collapsed long ago, exposing several of the floors to the outside. Kylie could see that the forth and fifth floors of the building had been converted into military style bunks which loomed over downtown and poked just above the Pitt's defensive works that snaked along the Monogehela River. Dozens of slaves with collars walked around the open rooms and whispered to one another as the raiders and Kylie approached.

As they entered the structure, a raider pushed Kylie to the side. He gruffly approached one of the collared slaves, an old man who looked over sixty. He had long grey hair and serious eyes. Kylie noticed the slave had an assault rifle slung over his back and grenades strapped to his side.

"Got a new solider for you," the raider motioned for Kylie to step forward.

The old slave looked at her with contempt, "_her_?"

The raider nodded, "she was able to survive a night out on the yard and bring back ten ingots. Tough enough?"

"I guess looks can be deceiving," the old slave nodded.

The raiders left as Kylie went to great the old man.

Kylie approached the old slave with a smile, "my name is-"

"I don't want to know your name," the old slave interrupted. He grabbed Kylie's collar and bent her neck down, trying to read some numbering engraved onto the collar's side.

"Ow, what are you-" Kylie began to struggle in his grasp. The other slaves looked on in silence.

"From now on," the slave took a final look at her collar before letting her go, "your number 32. Got it?" he said sternly.

Kylie was humiliated. Her cheeks burned from being treated like a piece of meat.

"What's your name slave?" the old man glared at her.

"Number 32," Kylie seethed.

"Good to see you're one of the smart ones," the old man motioned for Kylie to follow him over to the bunks.

The other slaves in the bunks all had collars just like hers. They were dressed like raiders, with spiky leather and bronze armor. They had knives and guns draped around them. They were intimidating to look at.

The old man swatted at Kylie for her to turn around.

Her eyes burned into him.

"I am the commander of the Mamlukes. Do you know what a Mamluke is?"

Kylie shook her head.

"Address me verbally and as your commander," the old man snarled.

"No. . .commander," Kylie hissed.

"I am a Mamluke. All of the men and women you see here are Mamlukes. Although we are slaves of Lord Ashur we are also soldiers. We are allowed to be armed and carry these weapons because we have been trusted to protect our king and his kingdom. You have proven yourself worthy to the bosses of being indoctrinated into our order. If you prove to be a loyal and acceptable soldier to me I will take you before Lord Ashur and you will become a Mamluke as well. Until that time, I am your Lord. My word is **LAW**. Both I and the bosses have the control to your collar. If you fail to obey my orders or their orders, or if you fail to show us the proper respect, you will be killed immediately. Understand 32?"

Kylie imagined jamming the circular saw from the steel yard into the old man's gnarled face, "yes, commander."

"You really _are_ one of the smart ones. Now you can be at ease. Meet your unit," the old slave walked off towards a staircase that led down to the ground level and disappeared from view.

"Don't let 100 intimidate you, that's what he wants," one of the Mamluke slaves stood up from his bunk and walked over to greet Kylie. The other slaves perked up from their still positions and relaxed. They began to talk to one another and dig around in their footlockers.

"One hundred?" Kylie looked at the young Mamluke. He had shaggy blond hair and bloodshot eyes. It looked like he had been sleeping before she had arrived as he was still awkward and groggy. A shotgun lay next to his cot and two pistols were tucked into his belt next to his armored crotch.

"The old man, Niels. Our commander," the man smiled, "my name is Ray," he went to shake Kylie's hand.

She stared at Ray's hand confused for a moment, "Kylie."

"Nice to meet you," Ray looked over his shoulder and pointed out a few of the other Mamlukes, "that's Lucy," he pointed to short, mean-looking muscled woman, "the guy with the RPG is Lance," Lance gave a curt nod, "and that huge fucker by the wall is Wallace."

Wallace, who was nearly a giant at six seven, slowly looked back from his bed. He had begun to play cards with a few of the other Mamlukes who were clumped together in the back corner.

"I thought we don't get to have names," Kylie looked across the bunk house.

Ray shrugged, "yeah well what Niels says doesn't apply when he's not around. He's been here so long I think he brainwashed himself. He eats up all of the bosses' bullshit."

Lance walked over next to Ray to get a better look at the new recruit. He smiled at Kylie, "hey little lady, you really made it a whole night on the yard? Such a cute little thing – the trogs must have thought you were too pretty to eat."

Kylie tensed up, "some did, I had to dismember the rest."

"Feisty too," Lance couldn't help but laugh, "well welcome Kylie. . .I mean 32."

Kylie nodded to him. She rubbed her arms. She felt naked next to the heavily armored men and women.

"Well come on," Ray put his hand on her shoulder, "let's get you geared up. You'll find this job isn't so bad. Much better than mill or yard duty. As long as the raiders from the counties don't attack, we pretty much just sit around and look tough all day. . . . ."


	3. Chapter 3

**-5-**

**Duquesne Heights**

"Now take the shell from over there and put it in the chamber," Nevada waived for the sweaty raiders working the mobile gun to feed the artillery shell into the long tube. The raiders had been sluggish all morning, dragging their feet while their Marauder commanders barked orders.

"Hurry up. Okay, now put the powder in, two bags."

The raiders continued to follow Nevada's instructions.

Nevada and seven other Marauders were teaching the local raiders how to operate the artillery guns they had set up atop the Duquesne heights. From their position on the hills surrounding the Pitt, they could see down into the entire city below.

The Pitt was a giant triangle. The two rivers on either side of the city, the Allegheny and Monongahela, converged at a central point where they formed the Ohio. At that spot, the top point of the triangle, was the old fort where the ancient city of Pittsburg had first been built.

The rushing rivers that surrounded the city had shrank to creeks after the war. Most of their waters had evaporated away, leaving behind a thick green sludge that barely flowed as a liquid, down inside a wide, muddy canyon. These sludgy rivers separated the Pitt from the towering hills that hemmed in the city on every side.

The Pitt had several bridges that arced over its three rivers and linked the city to the hills beyond. These bridges were death traps, mined and well guarded.

"Okay," Nevada continued his instructions. The raiders may have been uneducated but at least they were fast learners, "now shut the slide and puncture the powder."

The raiders manning the gun closed the rear of the tube with a click.

Nevada backed up from the weapon and adjusted his breast plate. The Marauder insignia on his chest stared up at him. He was a fully fledged Marauder now, no more second class status. He smiled to himself at the thought, and brushed back his thick brown hair. He ran his hand across the stubble on his cheeks.

One of the other guns on the hilltop went off with a loud boom.

Nevada looked at a gun far off in the distance and then walked over the ridge's edge. He peered down to the city trying to guess the proper trajectory to his target. He walked back and glanced at his firing tables for a moment, "okay, adjust the dial to 7.2 degrees."

A feisty female raider in Bombshell armor spun a wheel on the artillery piece's side which adjusted the angle of the long barrel.

Nevada waited until she was finished and then rechecked his calculations, "okay, fire for effect."

He put his fingers in his ears and ducked down a bit. The gun roared and sent a shell flying towards the city. It smashed into the dried up sludgy river, slightly short of the Pitt's outer walls.

"Try eleven degrees and a little north," Texas shouted to Nevada from one of the other artillery guns. Texas was older and bigger than Nevada. Except for his polished Marauder armor, he looked like a Wildman with a scraggly beard and beady eyes. He munched on a cigar while directing his own raider crew who were raining down fire on one of the bridges that crossed into the city.

Nevada smiled and gave Texas a friendly nod, "beat me to the punch. Okay, eleven degrees, fire for effect."

The raiders lobbed another shot down towards the city. This time the shell careened into a building deep inside of the Pitt, sending up a pillar of white smoke and dust.

Wyoming walked up behind Nevada unnoticed and put a hand on his armored shoulder.

The unexpected contact made Nevada jump.

"Well done myne newest brother. Bring thyne cannon down to bear on foul Lord as he sleeps off last night's revelry," Wyoming smiled.

"Wyoming, sir," Nevada had no idea how long Wyoming had been standing behind him. He stiffened into alarmed attention.

Wyoming ignored Nevada's anxiousness. He walked over to the artillery piece and playfully swung like a child on the barrel of the giant gun before walking to the very edge of the hill. He peered down to the city below.

Wyoming then slowly turned around to face the Marauders and the raider crews. He pulled off his helmet for the first time and held it at his side.

The raiders stopped what they were doing and strained to get a good look at the man.

For a second, Wyoming had a completely unremarkable appearance. His face was cleanly shaven. He had short black, greasy hair that had been flattened by his helmet. His eyes were a deep, brooding brown.

However once Wyoming turned fully around, the raiders could see that the right half of his face was covered in a large tattoo. The tattoo was of a jawbone and teeth, stenciled in black, as if the flesh on the right side of his face had already rotted away. The skeletal image was tattooed onto the skin from the center of his chin all the way to the joint that joined his mandible to his skull. At the very top of Wyoming's head was a long thin scar that had been made by a surgical saw which had cut down into his skull – a lingering sign of traumatic brain injury.

Wyoming waived Nevada over to him. Nevada skipped up next to his burly commander, bright and eager.

Wyoming pointed along the ridge line the artillery guns were placed on, "see that hill yonder, dipping just below the path of old Helios?"

Nevada nodded, "yes sir."

"That shall be the site of thoust army's advance. When Helios's chariot goes back to stable and fair Luna casts her glow down upon us, thoust amateur allies shall ford Acheron in night assault and storm the escarpments of enemy city to the crackles of your cannon fire."

Nevada tried to follow Wyoming's words, "It. . .it will be impossible for the county raiders to ford the Monongahela in a frontal assault," Nevada squinted down the hill, "I doubt any of them will make it across. Ashur is sure to fortify those walls; he'll be raining down mortars and small arms fire the whole time. If our guns up here try to cover them they'll be killed by friendly fire."

Wyoming put his long arm around Nevada's shoulder and leaned into him, "thou doth speak the truth. . .but still, I order thou to keep thyne guns firing hot during the advance. . .care for crude allies I do not, their push is but a feign, a rouse to deceive the enemy. Fair Florida and Utah shall lead our true charge across Bifrost Bridge to heart of enemy citadel."

"They're going to try to cross Liberty Bridge? They'll be cut to pieces."

"As long as Texas's cannons shoot straight and true our enemy's bastions shall be reduced to kindling. Our Marauders shall overwhelm the poultry bridge sentries for our enemies sit too haughty on their throne. They believe such assault unthinkable. Before Eros breaks the spell of dawn, our troops shall establish foothold on foul king's threshold. From that point we shall push on to lay siege to his castle – Haven!"

Wyoming let go of Nevada with gusto. He peered up and down the ridge line at all of his assembled troops, "In barely a fortnight, thyne enemy's foul kingdom shall suffer final Götterdämmerung!"

The female raider manning Nevada's artillery piece jumped down from her post and laughed. She looked at her raider companions with a shrug, "what the fuck is he saying? What is wrong with that guy? We're following _him_?"

Wyoming quickly trudged up next to the raider, looming over her, almost snarling, "what doth thee mumble wasteland sow?"

The raider felt crushed by his presence. The Marauders up and down the line stared daggers at her, she thought she might be shot at any moment, "I. . .uh. I just don't know what-"

Wyoming backed up from her and addressed the whole line, "what a sorry lot of desert sloths myne Marauders have assembled from surrounding hills. How uncouth and ignorant are they mannered. . ."

Wyoming's iron gaze returned to the bold raider, "shall such a slovenly wasteland sow mock my parlance?" he made an exaggerated shrug and loomed closer into her.

The frightened raider recoiled.

Wyoming head's shot right again in another tick. It took him a few seconds to recover, "come now, now that thee doth have myne ear, what shall ye ask of thyne commander? Speak swift crude bitch."

The raider girl looked around at the other raiders and Marauders exasperated, "_what_ are you saying? I have no idea what the hell you are talking about. . .no one does!"

Wyoming snapped forward and grabbed her by her head. He bent her so that he was yelling into her ear, "I have no time nor wish to explain myne manners to ignorant rube. Steel thyself little sow and man thyne post lest I cast you off our parapets to death in deep chasm yon."

Wyoming let her go and walked over to Nevada, "you myne brother, I shall send for thee when Helios shines at his zenith. Until that time, continue thoust goods deeds," he glanced back at the raider girl who was just getting back on her feet, "and be sure to silence irresolute wasteland rabble."

"Yes sir," Nevada watched Wyoming walk away.

After Wyoming was gone the raider girl approached Nevada. The other raiders manning the gun watched her closely, seemingly egging her on to ask what they were afraid to.

She didn't make eye contact with Nevada. She barley mumbled the question, "we all want to know what is wrong with that guy."

Nevada scowled at the raiders. He glanced over to Texas, who wasn't paying any attention. He had already gotten his crew back to firing, "_wrong_ with him? Wyoming's a tactical genius. I've followed him for over eight years. We've been through twelve sieges and twenty battles, and haven't lost one. I'd watch my fucking tongue around him if I were you. He's skinned men alive for much less," Nevada scratched his chin and sneered at the tense raider girl.

"Yeah. . . sorry. . .I mean, why does he talk like that? What is he-"

Nevada shrugged, "who fucking knows why, I don't. . .you. . .you get used to it after a while," Nevada shooed her back to her post.

He put his combat helmet back on his head and then peered down at his firing table, "Okay, recalibrate the gun to 9.8 degrees. Ready? Fire for effect!"

**- 6 -**

**Trouble Man**

Trouble Man picked his head up from the picnic table where he was sitting. He was far above the meandering, dirty streets of the Pitt. From his post up here he could barley hear the pathetic wails of all of the slaves being broken and beaten down below. He was all alone up here, few of the other bosses came this far down the gangways, to very the edge of the city, where the trogs lurked in the nearby shadows.

Trouble Man smiled to himself at the thought. He liked being alone with the Wildmen and the trogs. They were better company then the bosses anyway. None of _them_ liked being alone with Trouble Man, to them he was nothing but trouble.

Trouble Man used to spend most of the day at Harris' café high atop downtown, shooting up jet and popping pills, but he had gotten kicked out of there permanently for pushing an obnoxious raider off the roof to her death.

_Hehe. . ._

It wasn't the worst thing Trouble Man had done, not by far. Trouble Man had done unspeakable things - things that made the other bosses go white and that would give them nightmares but would only make Trouble Man smile.

Trouble Man was no longer allowed in most of the Pitt. From his erratic behavior - slashing up the faces of bosses he didn't like, beating two hookers to death with his fists, pissing on Neils as he stood guard at the gates - they all figured he was going wild. He was almost banished out to the yard, but none of the bosses had the balls to force him to go there.

_Guess I'm nothing but trouble._

Trouble Man reached down under his rooftop table and grabbed a bottle of Buffout. He popped off the cap and put two tablets onto the dirty wood in front of him. He smashed them to powder with the bottom of a half-full liquor bottle.

A trog howled off in the distance.

Trouble Man brushed the crushed pills into two long white lines. He snorted them one after the other and then sat back in his seat glassy eyed. Suddenly he felt cold; he wasn't wearing a shirt. His black chest was bare and exposed. His short hair was matted and greasy, his leather pants felt tight on his ashy skin. He scratched a small soul patch under his mouth and watched an artillery shell crash into a building far away to his right.

Trouble Man looked up at the hills that surrounded the city. He could see the raiders positioned on top of them scurry around like ants. Every now and then there would be a flash of light from the hills and another shell would fall into the Pitt with a low rumble.

Trouble Man tried to picture what it must look like up on those hills – all those raiders manning the big guns like ancient soldiers at Anchorage. He smiled to himself, picturing them doing all those fancy military maneuvers half naked, dressed only in bronze bondage gear. Duke had said all the county factions, the Pitt's long time adversaries, had been united by some western clique named the Marauders.

Trouble Man wondered what the Marauders looked like and how they behaved. Maybe they were sniveling suck-up schemers like Duke, or arrogant and pompous like Ashur. Trouble Man had no respect for those kind of men. Ashur and Duke and all the high up bosses were all about their plans, their rules, their future. . .

Trouble Man knew that the future was an illusion. The future may never come. All one had was what he had now. No time to plan, no reason to plot or scheme, only thing to do was live in the moment and follow your gut. Trouble Man always followed his gut. It had gotten him this far, he had outlasted all of the other bosses that came in with him. Now his gut was telling him that he should leave the Pitt. . .and he _always_ followed his gut. .even when he knew it would get him into trouble.

_Hmmm. . .she looks like trouble too. . ._

Trouble Man saw a girl approaching him from one of the gangways. She was one of Ashur's Mamluke slave soldiers; it looked like she was a messenger. She had an explosive collar fastened around her neck and was clutching a hunting rifle in her hands. She had been jogging up the ramp, but she slowed once she saw Trouble Man sitting at the end of her path.

Trouble Man studied the girl through his high. She didn't look like the other Mamlukes – she looked like she didn't belong. Most of the women Mamlukes were brawny and beastly. She was tall but skinny. Her leather and steel armor looked awkward and oversized. Her face looked mousy. Her short pixy hair was filthy and unkempt. Trouble Man hated short hair on a woman. He like long flowing hair – something he could grab onto.

Thinking about _that_ reminded him of chocking a girl out in the wastes. She had had long, flowing brown hair and sparkling green eyes the same color as a pear. He remembered how it felt to have her wiggling in his grasp, desperately trying to get away.

"Are you a boss?" Kylie lowered her hunting rifle, pointing it down towards the maze of gangways and streets below. She nervously walked up closer to the bare chested raider, unsure if he was one of the bosses or an escaped Wildman.

_Who is this bitch?_

Trouble Man took a huge swig of whiskey from his bottle. He licked off some of the Buffout powder that still clung to its bottom.

_Looks like she's got somewhere to be. . ._

Trouble Man didn't like people with somewhere to be. People who were always shuffling around, people who had to _do_ things and get places. People with plans and ideas. . . but there was something different about this girl. Trouble Man couldn't put his finger on exactly what, but it was a strong gut feeling.

_This bitch is special. . .gonna. . .gonna. . .need her for something. . . _

Trouble Man sniffed loudly, trying to pull the last of the Buffout powder into his sinuses. Another artillery shell fell into the city. It struck a roof top near the two of them, sending large chunks of brick and glass crashing down to the pavement.

Kylie ducked at the noise. Trouble Man didn't move.

"I'm Trouble Man," he cocked his head and stared at Kylie. His left eye was blind and cloudy from cataracts.

"Trouble Man?" Kylie furrowed her forehead. She clutched her rifle more tightly.

He nodded, "its true. . . I'm nothing but trouble. . ."


	4. Chapter 4

**- 7 -**

**Parlay**

California parted her soft red lips and slowly exhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke. She flicked the spent cigarette into the mud and studied her fingernails under the late afternoon sun. Although she had painted them dark blue only two days ago to match her eyes, the paint was already chipped and peeling. With her nails unpainted, she had the nervous habit of nibbling on them until they were tiny stubs, flush were her yellow fingertips. They tasted terrible.

_Too many cigarettes. ._ . .

California was sitting on an old tree stump, a few hundred yards out in front of the Marauder camp, in her usual role as sentry. Far ahead of her, she could see a line of shadows approaching through the dust. By their distinctive horned armor she could tell they were Pitt raiders. Although a little nervous, she wasn't alarmed. She figured they weren't there to attack or Texas would have sent word from the ridge line. Even if they were there for blood, there were only a few of them - there were hundreds of raiders and the rest of the Marauders to back her up.

"You lost or something?" California smiled to the Pitt raiders as they approached.

The raider out in front of the pack put his hands up in the air showing he was unarmed. He had a tall golden mohawk and looked better groomed than the raiders behind him. Although his face was cracked and blistered from spending years in the polluted Pitt he still has a refined appearance.

He approached California coolly; the rest of his gang lingered in the rear.

California ignored him for the moment; she dug around in her armor for another cigarette. She found one and put her lighter to it, quickly puffing while keeping her eyes down on the ground as he approached.

"You're the Marauders?" The raider peeked past California into the camp beyond. He paused to look her up and down.

California watched him gaze at her.

"I'm _a_ Marauder honey," she licked her lips provocatively. Although middle aged, she was very attractive. Her slender, curvy figure was visible under her polished Marauder armor. Her long dark hair billowed in the wind. Her eyes sparkled like the ocean.

"I'm Duke. Lord Ashur sent me here to deliver a message to the leader of the Marauders."

"Duke of what?" California cocked her head to the side and took a long drag. She then threw her hair back and adjusted her butt on the tree stump.

Duke furrowed his dirty brow, "_Duke_ is my name," he looked back up to the Marauder encampment. A few old artillery pieces poked out from amongst the sea of gray tents.

He waited for California to say something. She just stared at him emptily before glancing over to the other Pitt raiders who were walking up behind him.

"Well? Can I speak with-" Duke began.

"Am I holding you up honey?" California giggled. She pointed back towards the camp, "go ahead, speak with him. . .leave your _thugs_ here," she scoffed at his company.

Duke nodded and walked forward.

(*********************************************************************)

The Marauder camp was a circle of tents in front of the splintered ruins of an old farm house. It was less than a quarter mile back from the artillery emplacements on the Duquesne ridge line. Most of the tents were tiny two man fly tents – used by the local raider bands. The broken farm house had been converted into a mess hall, giving the whole encampment the smell of barbecued Brahmin.

As Duke approached the camp he tried to size up the strength of his enemies. It looked like the Marauders had gotten all of the county raiders to join the siege. They had the Cutters - whose armor was covered with sharp nails and long pins; McCoy's Boys - draped in bear skins like wild animals; the Erie Banshees - an all female set from the Great Lakes; and the River Dogs - the Pitt's cross river rivals on the Ohio.

The various county raider sets tried to intimidate Duke as he paused in the camp's entrance. One of Banshee raiders locked eyes with him and licked the blade of her Bouie knife.

Duke squinted into the mob. He could see several Marauders milling about, easily recognizable by their unique blue armor. They stuck together in cliques, not mingling with the raiders. Slowly, he approached one of them; a pale, chestnut-eyed man chewing a thick strip of Brahmin jerky.

The Marauder stared at Duke vacantly, the jerky made his cheeks bulge as he munched on it like cud.

"Where is the leader of the Marauders?"

The Marauder pointed towards a tall man sitting at a small mess table on the farmhouse's former patio. He was slurping up a bowl of noodles and washing it back with swigs of beer. When he saw Duke advancing towards him, he snatched up his bottle and staggered over to him with a smile.

Duke examined the man's strange appearance. His hideous facial tattoos made him hesitate, "Lord Ashur sent me here to speak with _you_."

Wyoming wiped his mouth with his armored sleeve, "and who art thou, young agent of Mephistopheles?"

Duke looked up at Wyoming in confusion. The strange man towered over him, "My name is Duke. I'm Lord Ashur's second in command. He sent me here to see what you want from the Pitt."

"Doth not your Lord offer to show his face at a true parlay?" Wyoming scoffed.

"Parlay?" Duke took a step back from him.

"Parlay - a meeting between warring lords under flag of truce in noman's land," Wyoming sniffed.

"Uhhh. . .Lord Ashur sent _me_ here to speak with you," Duke repeated perplexed.

"Then I see thoust foul king hath no stomach for myne presence nor manhood to match. . . he instead sends mongrel lapdog to do his bidding. So what say ye lapdog, speak thee peace, and leave myne camp."

"What?" was all Duke could muster.

Wyoming's head jerked right. He spoke more slowly, "speak thee peace and leave myne camp."

Duke looked around at the other Marauders, "Is he crazy? Is this a joke?" he turned back to Wyoming, "_who_ are you?"

"I am Wyoming. . ." Wyoming looked up towards the sky and then addressed everyone around him, "was but a petty scribe of the lowest knightly order. A scrivener in the Brotherhood's largest castle tasked with cataloging ancient tomes. . . till one day a stone roof fell upon myne head like Cain - smashed myne skull like eggshell. They said I suffered hot brain fever. . but no. . .but yes. . .but since that time I've seen the world with eyes anew and have traveled the wasteland with merry Marauder band," Wyoming inched closer into Duke's face, "and what of thee crested stranger? What doth thoust foul lord inquire?"

Duke retreated, "Lord Ashur wants to know why you've come to the Pitt."

Wyoming smiled, "I was sent to thoust foul Pitt by King Minos of Motor City. The king beseeched me to avenge the death of his only daughter. The poor maiden died whilst toiling in thoust foul lord's steel mill - neigh two months past. I was sent here to raze your city and bring back thoust foul lord's head in triumph," Wyoming stepped back and guzzled what was left of his beer.

"Alright," Duke nodded, "so you work for King Minos then?"

Wyoming's head jerked. He spit out everything still in his mouth, "I _work_ for no man. I will have no man myne master. . .that be said I posses certain skills - sometimes men cometh to me to ask that I use myne expertise and merry band to their advantage. . .some offer quite a kingly price, some offer not a farthing."

Duke scratched his mohawk, "Lord Ashur wants to know if you are willing to bargain. I personally know that he has the caps and cargo to match anything King Minos can offer."

"Talons?" Wyoming said, seemingly offended.

"_Talons_?" Duke said the word as if it were Chinese.

"Specie - gold, silver, coin - doth thoust foul lord offer _talons_ in supplication?"

"Yeah. . .uh. . .no, he is offering you caps and a huge stock pile of ammo and steel from the mill to go away. You tell me what you want and I will let Lord Ashur know your offer."

Wyoming nodded and leaned into Duke, "I shall tell thee myne price. Tell thoust foul lord that myne army shall leave once his city burns to ash and his stinking head sits atop myne pike."

"You. . .you don't want caps?"

"I want to see your city razed and to have thoust foul Lord's head upon myne pike," Wyoming repeated tensely.

Duke was mesmerized, "if you don't want caps then why are doing this for Minos?"

"_Why_?" Wyoming paused in contemplation, "why doth the scorpion sting? Why doth the nightingale sing? Why doth the she-wolf hunt its prey? Why doth the lowly ant its queen obey?"

"_**What**_?" Duke was utterly at a loss. He looked around at the other Marauders searching for any clue to as to Wyoming's meaning and then shook his head in frustration.

"Think on myne riddle and be gone young lapdog. Scamper back to waiting foul Lord and tell him the price of the piper," Wyoming walked away.

(******************************************************************)

Wichita pressed his baseball glove up against his lips. The scent of the old leather filled his nostrils. He rotated the baseball inside of the glove so the seams aligned with his fingers. He then squinted at Cheyenne through the dusk and let the ball rip.

Cheyenne caught the pitch with a smile, "not bad, how about some real heat next time?"

"Okay, then show me what the real heat is," Wichita smiled.

The two Marauders had been playing catch for almost an hour under the setting sun. The light was fading with every passing minute and it was becoming too dark to see the ball.

Less than a thousand yards away the artillery continued to pound the Pitt with a dull rumble. Every shot lit up the sky for a brief moment which allowed Wichita and Cheyenne to throw another pitch.

"The key is all in the grip," Cheyenne picked up his leg and wound back. He fired the ball like a bullet towards Wichita but it sank and crashed into the dirt at Wichita's feet.

Wichita watched the ball skip across the ground. He slowly walked after it, "the key is _what_ again? Hehe," he scooped up the ball from a patch of weeds and spit into the dirt.

A small crowd of raiders began to gather near their two Marauder commanders. They were nervously checking their gear and readying themselves for the battle to come. Watching the two Marauders play catch seemed to calm them. None of them spoke a word, hypnotized.

"Here's one for ya," Wichita tried to fire a laser right at Cheyenne's chest. The ball curved right and hung in the air.

Cheyenne easily plucked it from the sky, "come on now, spending all that time with the women - now you throw like one."

Wichita smiled. He had always been a womanizer. To him women had just always been better company. He liked to talk and gossip. Most of the men he'd come across, Marauders or otherwise, weren't interested in chit-chat. He had immediately bonded with California, Florida, and Topeka. They seemed to be the only people who ever had something interesting to say, and he was always willing to listen.

"Unlike you, I love _women_," Wichita smiled. He readied himself for his next catch.

A loud artillery shot rumbled and lit up the dark sky.

Cheyenne threw the ball at Wichita's knees, "very funny. . . gonna get you into trouble. Still trying to woo the boss's girl?"

"California?" Wichita tossed the ball back, "we had our fling already."

"Bullshit," Cheyenne snatched it from it air.

"What are you talking about? I've told you the blow job story already."

"No, bullshit about you moving on to greener pasture. California has you wrapped around her finger. .it's her eyes," Cheyenne lobbed a pitch to Wichita, "your never gonna escape her. . .and the boss won't neither."

"No, no. I'm telling you, I'm going for Florida. Suddenly become infatuated with that girl, maybe I've got a new thing for blondes. I think she's got a thing for me . . . got such long pretty legs. . .," Wichita threw the ball back.

"Yeah? Well their all the boss's girl," Cheyenne wryly smiled. He threw a perfect fastball to Wichita who couldn't see it coming in the darkness. It whizzed off towards the raider crowd.

Wichita walked over to fetch it. A tall, dark raider in Cutter style armor plucked the ball from the dirt. He tossed a baseball style pitch to Wichita.

Wichita caught the ball and waived it in the air at him, "hey now local, don't get cocky."

The raider smiled. An axe was slung around his spiky back, "can I join in?"

"Sorry. . .it's a private game," Wichita smiled, "you don't have the club jacket," Wichita pointed down to his armor. He was wearing plain blue Marauder armor - neither he nor Cheyenne had yet earned the right to wear the gruesome insignia across their chest.

The raider squinted at him irritated, "well we'll see how long your club lasts. . .looks to me like your old guns didn't take down the walls. That place has always been a death trap. We won't get to loot the city if we're dead, I'm not sure it's still worth it.

Wichita put his arms out to the side and gestured like he was an actor on a stage "Dooth thoust squirrlilous criven speakith creulth sedition-ith? I shalt not let a mongrel mumble such punctilianimous serendipity."

A few of the raiders cracked a smile. Cheyenne chuckled.

"I don't think Wyoming would take kindly to ya'll mocking him," Kentucky walked up from the darkness behind Wichita.

Wichita spun around and smiled to his commander, "I dunno. . .I think _he_ has a sense of humor."

Kentucky gravely nodded, his mouth was packed with Brahmin jerky, he chewed it with his mouth half open like a cow, "you might change your mind once I tell you your orders."

Wichita shrugged; he waited for another flash of light and pitched the baseball back to Cheyenne

Kentucky spat some salty saliva into the dirt, "you two doing your baseball ritual?"

"Before every battle," Wichita made a sly wink.

"Good, ya'll come ova here," Kentucky waived for Wichita and Cheyenne to walk over a bit farther away from the raiders so they couldn't hear.

"Yes-ith myneith commander," Wichita made a salute. Cheyenne jogged over, continuing to chuckle.

"And stop that round the hired help," Kentucky nodded towards the raiders.

Kentucky motioned for Cheyenne and Wichita to lean in to hear what he was going to say, "Utah and Florida are taking Liberty Bridge. Tennessee, Ohio, and me are leading the diversion - the assault across the Monongahela. You two are on the front line with the cannon fodder - leading the raider charge straight into the meat grinder."

Cheyenne wiped his dirty face. His short blond hair flapped in the wind. He looked to Wichita, "told you not to go after the boss's girl," he shook his head in contempt.

"California?" Kentucky stared at his two subordinates, "she's the Marauder bicycle. Everyone's had a ride. . . except maybe _you_," he smiled at Cheyenne, "Wyoming doesn't give a fuck."

Wichita was lost in thought for a minute. He stood silent until he noticed Kentucky was staring at him, puzzled.

"You alright?"

"Fine," Wichita said softy, "what am I supposed to tell the lambs before they go to slaughter," he looked towards the assembled raiders.

"Ya'll them whatever you want. Be creative. . .make sure ya'll tell them they better not run. . . .," Kentucky continued to chew his cud. He patted Wichita on the shoulder, "see you two at midnight. . .gonna be hell."

Wichita watched Kentucky walk off. He threw the baseball into his glove over and over again ruminating on his assignment. He pictured himself a bloated body mired in the Monongahela's mucky sludge.

"Hey," Cheyenne jogged a bit away and motioned for Wichita to throw him the ball.

"It's too dark," Wichita coughed.

"Hey man, my arm just loosened up. Ten more minutes."

Wichita nodded. He wound up and launched a perfect pitch into Cheyenne's glove.


	5. Chapter 5

**- 8 -**

**Monongahela**

_Tick. Fit. Chit. Few. Fwack. Pop._

Round after round smashed into the boulder in front of Wichita. At one time the stone had probably been buried under the Monongahela riverbed. Now it was the only nearby shred of cover for Wichita, and it was barely large enough to protect him from the withering heavy machinegun fire. He huddled behind the large stone, shaking from adrenaline, knee deep in the green, irradiated sludge that oozed like syrup down the rocky Monongahela.

_Fwack._

A machinegun round shattered a piece of the rock just above Wichita's head. Several sharp slivers of stone fell down onto his combat helmet and crackled like hail. He knelt down deeper into the muck. His boots were swamped. The rads in the sludge burned his skin like a weak acid. For a brief moment, Wichita was worried about letting his balls come in contact with the toxic sludge. That concern evaporated when a mortar shell exploded a few feet to the right of him

_AAAAAHHHHHH!_

Wichita wanted to scream for the noise and chaos to end. He was completely pinned down in the middle of the Monongahela. Less than two hundred yards ahead of him was the edge of the Pitt. Ashur and the raider bosses had fortified the opposite bank of the river with an imposing five foot high retaining wall of sand bags and old bricks. Every few dozen feet along the wall they had built up heavy machinegun nests. Behind the machine gunners were mortar crews. The fortified Pitt defenders rained down a torrent of lead and heavy ordinance on anything that moved in the riverbed down in front of them.

While the constant artillery bombardment from the Duquesne Heights had punched a few holes in the Pitt's defensive line, the position ahead of Wichita seemed impregnable. The pre-sighted machine guns cut down everyone who approached under withering cross fire.

"Next wave! Next wave!"

Wichita barely heard Kentucky's booming voice echo down from the hills behind him. He turned around and saw the red faced Marauder screaming for the third wave of raiders to advance out into the muddy Monongahela. Kentucky, Tennessee, and Ohio were dug into well hidden sniper nests half way up the Duquesne Heights. They could cover the county raiders or drill bullets into them if they refused to advance.

The third wave of Cutter and Banshee raiders placed under Wichita and Cheyenne's command were floundering. They hunkered down in a narrow trench near the river's edge, fifty or so feet back from Wichita's current, tenuous position.

"Move forward!" Kentucky screamed.

The Pitt was dully illuminated by the full moon. The artillery shells that continued to pummel the city had started several scattered fires that twinkled in the darkness. Every now and then a Pitt mortar crew would launch an old star shell into the sky which would brightly illuminate the battlefield.

A huge artillery round landed in the riverbed in front of Wichita. The explosion threw up a giant cloud of rocks and irradiated muck that rained down on him, popping and sizzling on his Marauder armor.

The first two waves of county raiders had been completely annihilated by the Pitt's defenders. They were supposed to have had their advance obscured by smoke grenades but the night was too windy. The smoke has dissipated before they could get across. Under the full moonlight they were easy targets.

The defending machinegunners setup along the Pitt's retaining wall were relentless; they hadn't let up on their triggers since the assault began. They weren't the same sloppy troops Ashur had sent to protect Liberty Bridge - they were the Pitt's crack units.

Wichita tried to peer over the boulder the moment bullets stopped impacting the rock. He could see the machineguns – they looked like flashing strobe lights as they swept the battlefield, strafing the riverbed quagmire over and over again, with the sound of a hellish saw. The few raiders who had survived the initial charges were cowering behind anything that provided cover - in the same desperate situation as Wichita.

Wichita and Cheyenne had charged out headlong with the second wave, hoping their reckless courage would drive the jittery raider sets forward.

Now, Cheyenne was ducking behind an old rusted out car, which had fallen into the river soon after the war. He and two Cutter raiders leaned over its hood every now and then to try and put some suppressing fire on the machinegunners. Almost immediately, the machineguns would sweep back around to their position and bury them under a stream of hot lead.

"Move now! Advance!" Kentucky screamed down at the cowering raiders from his position halfway up the Duquesne Heights.

The raiders peered up at him pale and shell shocked. They ducked down lower into the trench and didn't budge from their cover.

"**MOVE** you fucking chicken shits! **NOW**!" Kentucky screamed, livid.

The Cutters and Banshees looked forward to the river of death. The machinegunners completed another arc across the riverbed, kicking up splashes of sludge. The raiders remained motionless in their trench, paralyzed by fear.

Kentucky began to open fire.

As the cowering raiders looked up wide-eyed at the two Marauders on the hill, Kentucky and Tennessee began to snipe them, one by one, from their dug in positions.

A few of the Cutters tried to return fire at the Marauders. They were cut down by the two snipers. The rest were finally motivated to charge forward up and over the trench.

The Pitt's machinegunners pivoted to the next wave as they waded into the horrible sludge.

"Over here!" Wichita put his back to the rock and waived the raiders forward towards him. Those that didn't immediately dive forward into the muck were shot in the back by the Marauder snipers or cut in half by the machineguns.

The few who survived frantically crawled though the muck, clawing for any cover, under the withering fire.

Liberty Bridge towered over Wichita just a few hundred feet to his left. He could hear that the attack had finally started up there as well. With Ashur occupied with the diversionary river assault, the elite Marauder units were supposed to be able to cross the bridge. They could then swing behind the murderous machineguns and flank them. That would force the defenders to abandon their positions, allowing Wichita to finally breathe and break from cover.

Wichita counted the seconds waiting for Florida and Utah to break through. Each moment crawled by. He closed his eyes. If the bridge assault failed there would be nowhere for him to go. He may as well step into the wall of lead right now.

"This is fucking hopeless!" a Banshee raider screamed as she shot up from the sludge at Wichita's feet. She crawled up next to him, trying to duck behind him and the large rock. The stone wasn't large enough to protect both of them, Wichita fought to keep his position.

"Do something!" the raider grabbed Wichita's armor pulling him down into the sludge. She had fiery red hair and burning eyes. Her skimpy Sadist armor and exposed skin were cracking from the rads, "your fucking bosses up there are shooting us!"

Wichita jerked back and forth, breaking her iron grip, "we need to distract the enemy from the bridge advance!" He raised his assault rifle over the rock and blindly sprayed the defensive wall.

A few more raiders tried to flounder through the sludge and rocks over to Wichita's position. There was no more cover to protect them and they were torn in half by the murderous crossfire.

Wichita looked around wildly. He was mired in the middle of a prefect death trap. He couldn't think through the constant noise and nagging terror.

He peered over to Cheyenne. Cheyenne was screaming at the Cutter raiders cowering next to him behind the car, ordering them to crawl forward. The defiant men refused to budge from their position, cursing him and the Marauders for taking them into battle.

Cheyenne signed for the Marauders on the heights to take them down if they didn't push forward. One of the Cutters realized what Cheyenne was doing and punched him in the face with brass knuckles.

Cheyenne fell backwards into the thick sludge. He drew his pistol and fired a round through his attacker's teeth. The other Cutters hiding behind the car immediately opened fire on him riddling him with bullets.

_No!_

Wichita wasn't sure if he screamed the word or thought it. He raised his rifle and began to fire at the Cutters who had murdered his friend. The red head next to him grabbed the barrel of his gun and they wrestled in the muck.

"Those are our own fucking guys!" she screamed. She flailed and tried to pry Wichita's gun out of his fingers.

Kentucky and Tennessee began to snipe Cheyenne's killers. The Cutters were forced to abandon their position behind the car and were ripped to pieces by the heavy machineguns.

_Booom!_

An artillery shell landed right in front of the machinegun nests lining the retaining wall. More chunks of rock and gobs muck rained down on Wichita and the raider girl like a volcanic hail. For a brief moment the defending machineguns went silent and the line went dark.

The Banshee girl froze, stunned by the sudden quiet. A few wounded Cutters moaned from the quagmire.

Wichita threw the girl away from the rock, out into the open. He began to try and put suppressing fire on the enemy.

The surviving Cutters poked up from their cover and tried to push forward.

The machineguns roared back to life and cut them apart.

Wichita heard a loud pop. He turned to see the Banshee girl charging him. She had fired a shot into his shoulder. He didn't yet feel it as she slammed into him.

The little raider tried to push Wichita away and steal his cover. He fell down into the muck and clawed at her face and hair. Her whole body was pink from the toxic slime.

Liberty Bridge began to groan. A large section of the structure crashed down into the riverbed.

(**********************************************************************)

"Here they come again!" 100 screamed from the back of the line.

Kylie could barely hear him. She could barely hear anything over the deafening machinegun. Her eyes burned from smoke and her body was soaked in sweat. She continued to feed the cloth ammo belt into 48's machinegun while ducking behind the sandbags. Her heart was beating out of her chest. A star shell burst in the air allowing her to see another thirty or so raiders advancing across the river towards her position.

Kylie knew how to use a gun. As a caravaner such knowledge was required. Before being taken to the Pitt she had killed several raiders that had tried to rob her caravan. This was not that type of quick skirmish. This was an all out war and Kylie was terrified.

_Boom_.

A Marauder artillery round exploded in the river and sent up a cloud of rock and sludge. Kylie let go of the ammo belt for a second and covered her head with her hands. There weren't enough helmets to go around, and as a new Mamluke she had gotten shorted. She felt some pebbles slam into her skull like tiny meteors.

Kylie had no idea who these Marauders were or what they wanted. All she knew was that they were the blue dots among the raiders advancing towards her. She screamed at 48 to pivot left so he could take down one of those blue dots who was firing at them from behind a rusted out car.

_Fwack._

A sniper's bullet hit the sandbag in front of Kylie and threw a handful of sand into her face. She shook her head like a dog and screamed. She tried to wipe her eyes but the sand dug into them.

_I need a fucking helmet!_

Kylie tried to see if any of the other Mamlukes had fallen so she could take their gear. Lance and Ray were manning the machinegun nest to her left. They fought like professionals. As Ray fed the ammo belt into Lance's gun he would smack the back of Lance's helmet to let him know what direction the enemy was coming from. It was too loud for them to talk to one another. The guns, the screams, the mortars, the artillery – they all blended together.

"I'm out!" 48 screamed right into Kylie's ear. She hadn't been paying attention, more concerned with finding something to protect her head. She slid down from the machinegun nest and darted back towards 100 and the makeshift ammo dump.

100 was in his element. He had a calm, cool presence on the battlefield. He directed his Mamluke warriors like an orchestra conductor.

"On the right! There they are! Tear them apart! Behind those rocks! Keep him pinned down! Shoot for the ones in blue!" 100 barked as he ran up and down the back of the defensive line hunched over to avoid sniper fire.

Kylie found an ammo box and dragged it back to her position. She had been hyperventilating. All the air bloated her stomach. After she handed 48 the edge of the ammo belt she leaned over and threw up into the rubble.

_Boom_.

This time a Marauder artillery shell had fallen only a few feet in front of the line. Instead of throwing rocks and sludge up into the air, the explosion threw the muck directly forward, into the faces of the machinegunners. A large wad of toxic green sludge slammed into 48's face, blinding him. He fell down backwards from the machinegun nest, clawing at his face and screaming.

Kylie had been ducked down, throwing up her dinner. She scurried over to 48 to try and help but 100 grabbed her by her filthy hair.

"They're coming again! Get on the gun **NOW** or I'll blow your head off!" 100 screamed.

Kylie panted. She ignored 48's screams and took his position on the heavy machinegun. With no one to feed her ammo she had to fire more slowly to avoid a jam. She arced the gun across the riverbed. Some of the raiders who were too far away to shoot seemed to be getting cut down from behind. Kylie could see flashes of light from the hillside. She was confused as to why the Marauder snipers would be shooting their own men.

As she pondered that thought, she saw a Marauder poke out from a rock in the center of the riverbed. She immediately trained the machinegun on him and began to shatter the boulder to pieces. The man disappeared for cover and then reappeared in her sights. He was fighting someone – some raider dressed in Sadist armor. The two of them were wrestling in the toxic sludge.

Kylie took aim at the strange combatants and went to fire. At that instant a large section of Liberty Bridge crashed down onto the defensive line and the riverbed in a blinding wall of dust. Kylie was half buried under a torrent of dirty rubble. She thought she might be dead and lay still for several minutes. Everything seemed eerily silent. The wind blew the dust around in the inky darkness. She twitched each of her limbs making sure she was still able to move.

As she slowly came out her shock, 100's voice pierced her ears like a siren, "Mamlukes! Mamlukes! Regroup! Follow me downtown, they've crossed the bridge! They're in the city!"


	6. Chapter 6

**- 9 -**

**Downtown**

Kylie peered down her scope. Every window of the high-rise across the square from her looked dark and empty. A few tattered curtains fluttered in the bare windows from the cool night breeze. Bits of brick and clumps of dust flaked off the tall structure from the rumbles of a nearby battle.

Kylie saw a blue blur dart across a forth story window. She emptied the rest of her clip at the phantom and waited to see if it had any effect.

Along with Wallace and 63, Kylie had been pinned down in the square for the most of the night. The three of them were ducking in and out of the high-ranking slaves' houses in the center of downtown. Less than half a mile beyond their position; behind the towering sniper nest, the mess hall, and the petty slaves' bunks, the Marauders were trying to establish a toehold inside of the city.

Thus far this goal had occupied most of the Marauders' attention; they had only sent a few, small skirmishing parties to probe downtown.

Kylie continued to watch the window she had just hit. The sniper had never been more than a brief muzzle blast and a blur, but this time there was no response to Kylie's volley. The rubble strewn square fell into an eerie quiet.

_Maybe I finally got him. . ._

"Ooohhh-"

The silence was briefly broken by a groan from the man in the stocks.

Kylie took a final look up at the building and then tuned her head left, towards the moaning man. The man was a middle aged, horribly gaunt slave. His head and arms were locked into a pillory. He had been confined in the device for days and every now and then he moaned from the pain.

Between Kylie and the immobilized slave were two dead mamlukes. The elusive sniper had shot them when they had tried to free the man from his confinement. There were several other dead mamlukes lying throughout the square. The shadowy sniper had slowly whittled down Kylie's unit throughout the night, picking them off one by one.

_Fhickt._

"Argh-" Wallace dropped his mini gun. It clanked at his feet. A sniper's bullet had hit his left elbow, shattering the bone, and sending blood streaming down his arm. As he collapsed onto his knees, a pair of Marauders rounded the opposite corner of the square and darted into the mess hall.

They began to shoot at the three mamlukes from across the rubble.

Wallace and 63 were able to duck back into the slaves' quarters behind them, but Kylie was caught out on the porch. She huddled behind a thick, concrete support strut. The heavy beam held up a second floor catwalk that ran back to the mill. She pushed her head back against it and felt around in her armor for the next clip.

"Are you alright?" 63 looked across the narrow doorway to Wallace. Sweat poured down his filthy face, depositing a layer of polluted grime around his slave collar.

Wallace fought through the pain and finished wrapping his arm, "I'll be fine. Let's flush out these motherfuckers!"

Wallace raised his mingun. The barrels began to swirl and whine. He and 63 leaned out from the doorway simultaneously and filled the mess hall across the square with lead.

Kylie used the covering fire to try and locate the sniper. She backed away from the support strut and studied every window of the towering brick building.

After a few sweeps, she thought she may have seen something on the fifth story. She inched a bit further back from her cover to get a better look.

Wallace's minigun began to overheat; he and 63 were forced to retreat into the slaves' quarters to reload. As they did, the two Marauders they had pinned down in the mess hall rose up and took aim at Kylie. She had just gotten a lock on the sniper and wasn't paying attention to ground level.

"Kylie!"

A burst of gunfire erupted from the catwalk above the three mamlukes and a stream of empty cartridges rained down in front of Kylie. The two Marauders in the mess hall were shot to pieces and fell to the ground.

Wallace, Kylie, and 63 cowered in confusion.

After a few seconds a tall, burly raider came trudging down from the catwalk. He was Jackson, the slave task master. He looked like an ancient gangster, with a thin smirk, a pop marked caveman face, and a surly attitude. He was in charge of giving all the slaves their work assignments and doling out punishments. He had the right to kill any slave on sight and the master controls to every mamluke's collar.

Jackson glared at the three mamlukes from the edge of the catwalk with a look of contempt, "quit dicking around with that sniper and come up here," he motioned for them to walk up the gangway.

The three mamlukes charged upstairs. The rest of their unit was positioned on the second story catwalk, searching the ruins for the mysterious sniper, who had once again melted into the urban rubble.

"We got all of them now, Neils?" Jackson looked to 100 impatiently.

100 gingerly peered off the gangway in front of him and nodded, "all that are left."

"Then follow me grinders, we're going to the mill."

100 hesitated, putting his arm on Jackson's horned shoulder, "we should attack the bridgehead to stop the Marauders from breaking out into the city. Now's the time to contain them."

Jackson ripped 100's hand away, "you don't give orders to _me_; I didn't ask for suggestions," Jackson said coolly, "the mill slaves are rioting. We put them down and make an example or the other slaves will torch the Pitt before the Marauders get a chance to."

(*****************************************************)

The mill was dark and sickeningly silent. The dismal structure normally echoed with the deafening sounds of the presses, the boiling blast furnaces, and the high pitched whines of hydraulic machinery. These ceaseless, jarring noises continued around the clock to keep the iron and steel from solidifying in the smelters.

The constant noise of the mill was what had made Kylie volunteer to wander out into the steel yard. She had grown up in county silence and all the violent sounds gave her a constant headache that stung worse than the most terrible migraine.

Now the mill _was_ quiet. Kylie could only hear the whistling of the wind, blowing down from the broken windows overhead.

When the mill slaves had gotten word that the Marauders had entered the city they rioted and killed the power to the mill. All of the machines went dark and quiet. The mob then turned on their hated masters – bludgeoning them with sledgehammers and burning out their eyes with blow torches.

As Kylie looked down below she could see the dismembered bodies of several mill bosses scattered amongst the machinery.

_Hope they got you, Faydra. . ._

Kylie closed her eyes. She thought back on her first Pitt beating.

"Shoot anything that moves," Jackson whispered. He saw something shift in his periphery and grabbed 100's arm, motioning for the two of them to take the lead in the darkness.

Kylie continued to scan the lower levels. The first light of dawn was beginning to poke through the open ceiling, casting tiny shadows that danced across the dark machines.

She heard a noise echo up from below. She and the other mamlukes paused.

A trio of slaves opened fire from the ground floor.

Bullets rattled the steel under Kylie's feet. She and Ray were the first mamlukes to return fire. They took down the untrained slaves quickly, acting on pure instinct. Kylie had been shot at all day - these were easy targets.

After taking down the three gunmen, the mamlukes continued their sweep.

The rest of the mill seemed to be empty. It appeared that most of the slaves had fled.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching, Jackson heard something far ahead of the mamlukes. He ran off down to the edge of the catwalk, gesturing to ground level.

"There they are! Down there! Shoot them!"

The mamluke squad ran down to the middle of the long catwalk and trained their rifles on the lower level.

Below them were about thirty mill slaves. They were all gaunt, unarmed, and caked in mill grease and soot. Although most were of average age, there were several small children and old women huddled among them, looking up at the mamlukes with empty eyes. A few of the slaves held up their arms in surrender to the mamlukes. The rest nervously chattered to one another.

"That's them! Shoot them," Jackson hissed.

All of the mamlukes hesitated. Although they had been called on to quell riots or hunt down escapees before, none of them had ever done something quite like this. They froze in contemplation of the order.

"Fire!" Jackson was furious.

The men and women below began to scream and wail, a few scattered for cover.

100's turned to face his mamluke soldiers. His eyes burned into them, "That was an order!"

None of the Mamlukes moved. They stared at the slaves below.

Kylie focused on a young boy in the crowd, a grease monkey. The bosses needed small arms and hands like his to reach the tiny gaps in the mill's machinery. He couldn't have been older then twelve. Even though he was covered in dust and grime he looked pale as a ghost.

"Now!" Jackson turned his glare towards Wallace who was standing right next to him.

Wallace put his finger on his minigun's trigger for a moment but then removed it. He shook his head at Jackson and closed his eyes. He knew what was about to happen.

"You were just given an-" 100 didn't get to finish his sentence.

Jackson detonated Wallace's collar and the mamluke's head exploded. Pieces of skull, hair, and brain wallpapered everyone around him. The other mamlukes cringed, dripping with warm gore.

"**FIRE or DIE!**" 100 snarled.

Kylie closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. She and the other mamlukes sprayed the crowd.

(**********************************************************)

The stock slave tried to cough in his horrible confinement. His head and hands couldn't move an inch so any muscle spasm was utter agony.

In all the time he had been locked into the pillory, the bosses had only allowed him a single bite to eat and a few sips of water. Those meager rations had been given merely to prolong his misery. Now his chest was sore and his breathing labored. He felt that in another few hours he would probably succumb to exhaustion.

_Ah well. . . . God will know my spirit was never broken. . ._

The slave tried to stay positive to the end. He still had some control over his life. He could choose when to give in – if ever. He could choose how he would feel about it – sad, at peace - maybe happy if he really tried. Even though it was only a small shred of control, it was all he had left, and the only thing he could keep from the bosses.

The slave relaxed his muscles for a moment. Without them flexed he couldn't breathe.

The battle in downtown had died down to a dull murmur. The dawn light able to poke through the city's smog bathed the rubble and ruins in a faint yellow. The slave was happy to be able to see another morning. As he rotated his head to try and see his last rising sun, he saw a Marauder approaching him.

The slave had seen several Marauders in the square earlier – only notable because of their armor. He didn't know who they were, nor did he care.

This particular Marauder was a middle aged woman with blue eyes and jet black hair. She had a long, menacing sniper rifle at her side and was smoking a cigarette as she approached. Her dimpled face had a little, impish smile.

The slave braced himself, expecting to either be freed or shot at any moment.

California paused in front of the stock slave. His eyes couldn't raise up high enough to see her face; he could only stare down at her feet. She smiled to herself at his predicament. She then plucked the cigarette from her mouth and held it down to the slave's cracked lips, offering him a puff.

The slave tried to glare up at her. Through everything he had endured, he couldn't understand what drove people to be so cruel to one another.

California grinned at his refusal. She sat down on the rubble in front of him so he could get a good look at her, "aw honey, what did you do to get locked in there?"

The slave wasn't sure if he should answer. He eventually decided this could be his last conversation, "I told the Pitt bosses what I thought of how they treated people. . .I told them all to go to hell."

California giggled, "was it worth it?

"Someone had to tell them. . .someone had to stand up to them. I wasn't going to die broken. . ." the slave's throat was bone dry. His voice cracked and he choked back a cough.

"Instead you'll die chained to a piece of wood. . . is that any better?" California smiled.

The slave closed his eyes, "I won't have died a slave. I will have died a free man."

"We're all slaves," California said coolly. She stood up from her seat and walked up beside him and out of view, "slaves to fate."

The slave heard her draw her pistol. He exhaled slowly and heard a loud pop.

California lifted the top piece of wood off of the stock, freeing the feeble slave. She had shot off the lock.

Using all of his energy, the slave rose up and then collapsed onto the ground. His face looked elated. Whatever happened to him now, he wouldn't die locked into that horrible device. He tried to rub his raw wrists. All of his muscles were sore. He thanked God for his freedom.

As the man tried out each of his limbs, California's eyes were drawn to a large tattoo that poked out from just under the sleeve on his upper arm. It was of two crossed swords surrounded by a circle of laurel leaves. In-between the swords were the letters BoS.

"You were in the Brotherhood?" California asked him, amused.

The slave squinted up at her from the rubble. He shifted on the ground and tried to sit up but he was too weak, "21st Infantry."

California backed away from him. She lifted up the front of her armor and hiked up her thick undershirt. She then edged down her dark underwear uncovering a large, black tattoo just above her panty line. It was identical to the slave's, a pair of swords and a circle of laurel, "I was in the 82nd, Long Range Recon."

"Y_ou_ were in the Brotherhood?" the slave sniffed.

California smiled, "on the west coast. I never heard of the 21st. You must be one of Lyons. . . ._idealists_."

"_Idealists_?" the slave looked up confused.

California stood up from her seat and walked over to the slaves' quarters a few feet away. An old radio sat on the patio, undamaged from the prior fire fight. She began to fiddle with its knobs to try and get some music, "tell me honey, why did you join the Brotherhood?"

"To help the wasteland," the slave stiffed his face. His answer sounded almost trite to him but he said it with conviction, "to help fight the good fight."

"What is that?" California crinkled her nose, "good fight? How do you know what _good_ is? Really everything falls into a grey area."

"Nothing is grey. Everyone knows good from evil. Some people, like the bosses, just choose not to do what's right. The good fight is about the struggle against those people, and the struggle within yourself," the slave croaked.

"But how do you know what is _good_?" California asked without looking.

"Conscience. . .the bible says that God gave every man a conscience so they could see their sins and ask for forgiveness."

"God?" California giggled, "God is a boogeyman, invented by old men to make little minds tremble. He is more worthless than ash and more meaningless then static," she continued to fumble with the radio.

"You don't believe in God?" the slave balked.

"I don't believe in _good_," California quipped, "people don't do good, they just do. One day they're kind the next cruel. All comes down to random circumstance mixed with emotion and natural predisposition. That's the recipe for your conscience. Nothing good or bad about it. . . .just a word you use to rationalize. We're all animals, fumbling our way around a grey fugue."

"But. . .but you said you believe in fate," the slave fully sat up. His eyes looked tired yet inquisitive, "how can you believe in fate and not God?"

"Fate doesn't need God. Fate only needs men; men weave it. . .I don't _believe_ in fate, I know it. I've known my fate my whole life since I was six; it came to me in a dream. I saw everything that would happen, everything from joining the Brotherhood, to meeting Wyoming, to attacking this city. . .I still remember the exact day I die. . ."

"And you don't believe in God?" the slave laughed, "don't you realize that God is showing you your path, warning you to change?'

California smiled, "poor fool. There is no God. Things happen. I've just seen what _will_ happen. There is no reason why things happen this way or that. Some people can't accept _that_ – that's why they invent God – to give a reason for fate to play out to the melody it does. . .but fate doesn't need God, it does fine all by itself."

The radio finally came to life. The broken square filled with prewar jazz music. California rocked her hips to the quick beat; she'd heard this particular song a thousand times before, but still danced, entranced by the melody.

The exhausted slave shook his head, "you are blind. Fate is the judgment of God. If you accept him, and spread his work, you can make your own fate."

California looked up at the dawn sky. "No. You can't change fate– that's not its nature. It always plays out on key in the end."

The tired slave followed her gaze up to the sky and the rising sun. He mulled over California's words for a moment and tried to follow her philosophy, "then. . . if you've seen it all already. . .and there is nothing at the end. . .what do _you_ have to live for?"

California didn't turn around, lost in the music. As if as an answer, she continued to sway to the familiar beat.


	7. Chapter 7

**- 10 -**

**Haven**

_Did I really kill him?_

Kylie couldn't stop thinking about the little grease monkey in the mill. After she had stopped firing she hadn't looked down to see if he'd made it. She had turned her eyes towards the ceiling and didn't blink until she left the mill.

The true realization of what she and the other mamlukes had done didn't sink in until she entered Haven. Once it hit her, it felt like a giant weight had come to rest on her chest, making it so tight so she couldn't breathe. The grease monkey's eyes haunted her; she could see the two white orbs any time she closed her eyes.

"Our best course of action is to kill the slaves under our control, cut the flood lights to uptown, and wait out the Marauder siege here in Haven," Duke's voice carried into the hallway where Kylie, 100, and three other mamluke initiates were seated on the floor.

100 had taken the mamlukes to Haven to be indoctrinated into the Mamluke Order. Although it was somewhat a formality, especially with the city crumbling around them, Ashur had insisted on maintaining the old ritual.

From Kylie's seat, she could see Duke and Ashur through the half open door to Ashur's office. The Lord of the Pitt was shorter then she would have imagined. He was about five foot eight with wiry black hair and a closely shaved, graying beard. He was wearing Brotherhood style power armor, inlaid with gold and Brahmin bones to give him a regal appearance. He had a cool demeanor, as opposed to Duke who was pacing around the office, nervously scratching his mohawk.

"Duke, they are not slaves. They are workers," Ashur said gruffly. His brown eyes trembled.

"Huh?" Duke stopped in his step. He looked down at a large map of the Pitt which was lying across Ashur's luxurious, mahogany desk.

"Don't refer to them as slaves. They are workers. It helps them and us remember that one day they can be free. . .," Ashur paused.

Duke squinted at Ashur, irritated, "Whatever you call them they're rebelling and fleeing to the Marauders. The Marauders arm those that come to them and send them against us. We have too many _workers _to manage while trying to fight a war. We need to get rid of them."

Kylie shuttered at Duke's cold words. She looked away from Ashur's office down the hallway.

Haven had once been a large condominium building. Ashur had refurbished the old ruin and turned it into a fortified palace. It housed many of the bosses' families, as well as some of the Pitt's most valuable slaves – scientists, doctors, and engineers. The inside of the building was lavish, decorated with the finest scavenge to be found in the city. The polished halls smelled like disinfectant. Fake plants and glittering prewar trinkets hung down from the tile walls. The whole building had been reinforced with steel to withstand attacks from trogs, slaves, or anyone else foolish enough to attack the Lord of the Pitt.

"What are you suggesting?" Ashur walked over to his office window. He peered down at his city. Fires twinkled on the skyline.

"We pull everyone loyal back here and then kill the lights and open the gates to uptown. The trogs will sweep into the city. That should prevent the Marauders from bringing their artillery into uptown within range of Haven. We can hold up for months here as long as we aren't being shelled. The Marauders will tire of the siege. Most of their county allies have already fled."

Ashur shook his head and turned around, "and what would we emerge to, Duke? A barren, wasted city full of trogs? A city without people? A few charred skeletons and a ruined steel mill. . .what is it that you think we are fighting for?"

Duke cocked his head confused, "_ourselves_."

"No!" Ashur slammed his armored fist down on the table, "we are fighting for the city – for you, for me, for the other bosses, all the way down to the lowest ranking worker. We are all one unit, one order! That is what makes us strong. That is what makes life here possible. If we throw away order and destroy everything we've created, we will have nothing with which to build it back up."

Kylie watched the two men though the doorway. 100 glared at her to look away. Duke noticed her passing glance and then turned back to his leader.

"Then what is _our_ strategy?" Duke asked sarcastically.

"We defend this city tooth and nail," Ashur said coolly. He followed Duke's gaze outside of the room to Kylie and the other slaves, "you see those mamlukes out there? Have you heard how hard they fought for their city? Sometimes in war workers must become warriors. We can conscript more workers like these to bog the Marauders down. Without their allies they won't be strong enough to win."

Kylie thought about Ashur's idea. She pictured hundreds of poorly armed slaves forced to wade out into withering Marauder fire, all locked into collars like the one that dug into her skin.

"The Marauders don't the need the county raiders anymore," Duke sneered, "they have all the rebelling slaves to use as bullet sponges."

Ashur nodded, "well, they will rebel no more. I have ordered Jackson to collar all the workers he can and to round up the rest. . .and I have also sent a message to King Minos, letting him know I had no hand in Ophelia's death. Perhaps if he knows that, he will be willing to end the siege and call a truce before he wastes any more resources."

"Ophelia?" Kylie said to herself, softly. The word left her lips before she realized she had spoken it aloud.

Both Ashur and Duke looked in her direction. 100 gave her a glare like he was going to beat her to death then and there.

Kylie turned red in terrified embarrassment. She wanted to melt through the floor.

Ashur walked over to the doorway and gave her a disarming smile. He pushed the door open fully and motioned for Kylie to stand up.

100 stood up right behind Kylie, ready to snap her neck if so ordered.

Ashur put his hand on her dirty shoulder, "you must be one of the new mamlukes who helped defend our city's banks from the foreign invaders. I have been told how bravely you all fought and I am proud to accept all of you into the Mamluke Order. It is the highest honor a worker can attain, and the first step on your journey to true freedom," Ashur paused, "but now. . .I heard you speak of King Minos's daughter. Tell me mamluke, did you know Ophelia?"

Kylie was nervous to look into Ashur's eyes. She felt uncomfortable with everyone staring at her and wished she had stayed quiet, "I. . .I met a girl named Ophelia out in the steel yard a few days ago. She said she escaped from the mill. . .and that her father was a king."

"Ophelia is alive?. . .This is unexpected," Ashur mused. He turned back towards Duke, "you see, no need for rash decisions at the moment. . .perhaps our solution lies with this mamluke."

Ashur reentered his office and approached Duke, "we should find Ophelia immediately and let King Minos know she is safe. We can then ransom her back to her father in exchange for him lifting the siege," Ashur smiled to himself at his new found plan.

Duke licked his lips, "I don't think we have time for that. . .King Minos no longer matters; he's hundreds of miles away. It's the Marauder commander, Wyoming, who is at the gates. He's the one who will decide whether or not to lift the siege."

Ashur barely listened to what Duke was saying. He began to roll up the map on his desk, "then we ransom Ophelia to him."

Duke was unimpressed, "I met Wyoming and I don't think that will work. He seems to be doing this all out of some deluded sense of honor. We should just give Ophelia to him. That will force him to leave. . .there will be no reason for him to be here."

"You want me to give her away for nothing?" Ashur scoffed, "then we will have nothing left to bargain with to Minos."

"Minos doesn't matter," Duke repeated.

Ashur had grown weary of Duke's attitude, "take this mamluke and find Ophelia. Bring her to me and send for the Marauder commander. Tell him that we have the King's daughter and that I will meet with him to discuss the terms for her release."

Duke waited for Ashur to continue but he was apparently finished. He waived Duke off into the hall.

Duke closed the office door behind him and shuffled over to Kylie. He looked her up and down and then grabbed her by her collar, "this way slave," he began to drag her down the hall, away from 100 and the others.

Kylie followed him with quick steps. She was exhausted but it pained her to be dragged by her collar.

When Duke had pulled her out of earshot from the other mamlukes he leaned into her and whispered, "I won't let Ashur make me die a fool. You find Ophelia and bring her to me. You tell one else."

(*********************************************)

_Ophelia!_

Kylie wasn't sure if she should call out her name, out of fear of altering every trog to her presence. She bent over and squinted into the large pipe. Inside she could see Ophelia's grubby blanket, a few empty tins of food, and some tattered rags that used to be clothes. There was no sign of the girl. All of the more valuable cargo was missing.

_Hope she didn't move on. . .or get eaten._

A trog howled in the distance. The noise made Kylie tense up and clutch her rifle.

Kylie wasn't nearly as frightened to be in the steel yard as she had been before. Most trogs didn't pose much of a threat to someone who was armed and armored. As long as you saw them coming, and there weren't more than a few of them, they were easy pickings. Kylie had shot two trogs on her way back to Ophelia's hidey-hole. With all the groans off in the distance she was growing concerned that Ophelia might not have been so lucky.

Kylie backed away from the pipe and scanned the gangways above her. If a trog had nabbed Ophelia she would have already been chewed to bits by the savages, but it was possible that a Wildman had captured her like last time. It would be an odd coincidence, but Kylie was out of ideas of where else to look, and didn't have a lot of time.

Most of the Wildmen lived high above the steel yard on the gangways where the pollution wasn't as intense and trogs rarely ventured. As Kylie studied what appeared to be an old, abandoned Wildman's camp, she saw a brief flicker of movement high above her.

"Ophelia!" Kylie called.

There was a shadow on catwalk. It had been watching her.

Kylie chased after it.

(*********************************************)

Ophelia hit her face on a pipe and fell onto her back. Her head shot around and she saw the woman chasing after her. She sprang back to her feet and continued to weave between the gangways that crisscrossed the giant power plant on top of the steel yard.

The woman tailing Ophelia was quick and agile. She hopped over a railing, down to a lower level, cutting off Ophelia's path.

Ophelia froze, unsure of which way to run. She saw that the woman was beginning to approach her. She drew her pistol and trained it on her pursuer.

"Go away! I'll kill you!" Ophelia panted.

Kylie raised her hands, leaving her rifle on her back, "I'm not going to hurt you. Don't you remember me? I'm Kylie."

Ophelia was still out of breath. She tucked her knotted hair behind her ear and again aimed her pistol at Kylie, "I know who you are. . .you're here for the bosses," she gestured to Kylie's collar with her pistol, "you must have told them I was here. They sent you to get me, didn't they?"

"Yes," Kylie nodded, "its okay though. They don't want to hurt you either," she took a small step forward and stared down Ophelia's barrel.

"**STOP**!" Ophelia screamed.

A trog moaned somewhere below.

"I won't let Ashur hold me prisoner," Ophelia sounded frantic. Her eyes darted around, searching for any more trogs.

"What are you going to do?" Kylie continued to approach her.

"Escape. . .," Ophelia shouldered a makeshift knapsack and inched away from Kylie, down the gangway, "the men that invaded the city opened the doors to the yard. I'm going to escape and make my way back home."

"I'm here to take you back home. Ashur wants to send you back to your father so that he will lift the siege and end the war," Kylie crept up to within a foot of Ophelia.

"Well, I'm not going to let you or Ashur capture me. I'll make it home by myself!" Ophelia took off.

Kylie sprinted across the catwalks after her. Ophelia knew her way around the rooftops, but Kylie was a faster runner. She able to chase Ophelia down and tackle her to the ground.

"You can't run!" Kylie struggled to hold onto Ophelia. The girl flailed wildly, "unless you come with me the siege won't end!"

"I don't care!" Ophelia kicked Kylie off of her. She waived her pistol in Kylie's face wildly, "let them die! Ashur and all of the bosses. Let them burn! They deserve it!"

"What about me? What happens to all the slaves like me?"

Ophelia sniffed and stood up, "I don't know. . .," she began to retreat, still aiming the gun at Kylie.

"Do you know how many innocent slaves have died defending the Pitt already?" Kylie's cheeks went flush; her voice was tinged with anger. She stood up.

"I didn't ask for any of this," Ophelia continued to back away. A trog peered up at her from the ground level, "I didn't want any of this."

"This whole war is your fault!" Kylie screamed.

"What?"

"The Marauders are here because of you. Your father sent them because he thought you were dead. Everyone who has died," Kylie's eyes teared up. She wiped her face, "everyone I had to KILL, died because of you. . .everyone who dies if the siege continues _will_ die because of you. . .because you ran away. . .again."

"That's not fair. . .I didn't," Ophelia paused, "I just want to be left alone!"

Kylie tried to collect herself. She had never been so angry, "you have to come back with me. You're the only person who can stop this. You can save thousands of people from dying. If you try and escape everyone in this city will be slaughtered."

"No!" Ophelia cried, ". . . it's not fair. . .I just want to. . ."

"I won't let you run away," Kylie continued to stalk Ophelia, "you'll have to kill me."

Ophelia lowered her weapon. She sat down on the catwalk.

**- 11 -**

**Hamlet: Act III: Scene I**

"Well looky here, all grown up," California smiled to Wichita as he approached her from the smoky ruins. She was standing at the edge of uptown, close to the spearhead of the Marauder line. As Wichita came up closer, she put her hand to his armor, and traced the new insignia on his chest.

"Tennessee painted it this morning," Wichita said distracted, he looked off towards the front lines. The profile of Haven loomed over uptown.

"You did good in the river. Must have been pretty tough," she kissed Wichita's cheek, "congratulations on making the grade."

"Thanks," Wichita sat down in the rubble. He looked jittery. He fiddled with something at his side.

"You still all there?" California laughed.

"Huh?" Wichita looked up at her. He had dug a baseball out of his pocket and tossed it from hand to hand, "sure. . . .what are we doing here?"

"We're intimidating meat in the room for a meeting between Wyoming and Ashur," California scanned the front lines.

Wichita continued to stare at the baseball without saying a word. He traced the seams with his fingers and then gnashed the ball in his palm.

California sat down next to him, "well chipper, what's wrong?"

Wichita sucked in his cheek. He ignored the question for a little while and watched the city burn all around him. Wyoming had ordered downtown torched a few hours ago. Fresh, acrid smoke filled the sky and blanketed the twisted streets.

"If you feel like talking. . ." California stood back up. She could see three people approaching from the enemy line.

Wichita glanced up at her, "you. . .are you nervous about attacking Haven?"

"You obviously are," California grinned, "don't worry. I know you'll be fine."

Wichita rose to his feet, "yeah. . .well I don't want to be thrown around like cheap _meat_ anymore."

"We all have to pay our dues."

Wichita spit into the rubble. He eyed the newcomers, "well I hope Wyoming and Ashur can resolve this. . .amicably."

(*********************************************)

Ophelia tripped on a rock amongst the rubble. Kylie caught her and helped her back to her feet. She was cold, her skin was clammy. Kylie could tell she was afraid.

"You're doing something good. It's going to be okay," she tried to comfort Ophelia.

Duke snatched Ophelia's hand, "walk with me," he pushed Kylie away like a dog and dragged Ophelia forward.

Kylie followed the two of them over to the Marauder line, tailing them from a few feet behind. Whenever Ophelia looked back to her she tried to give her a comforting smile.

"We meet again," Duke let go of Ophelia and approached California, who gave him her usual, bemused smile, "where is Wyoming?"

"On his way," California yawned.

Ophelia looked up at Duke, "who is Wyoming?"

"Shut up," Duke spat.

Wichita motioned to Kylie and Ophelia, "who are they?"

"_She_ is just a slave," Duke pointed to Ophelia, "_she_ is why I want to speak to Wyoming."

California winked at Ophelia, "you said _Ashur_ was going to speak with us."

"I have a better offer than Ashur," Duke smiled, "I want Wyoming to hear mine first."

California glanced back, a group of Marauders were approaching from behind, "well here's your chance."

Wyoming, Texas, and Nevada appeared from the thick smoke.

Ophelia recoiled at the sight of Wyoming. Her eyes were drawn to the scalps that dangled off his belt. One of them was red and dripping with flesh blood. He had his short sword drawn and he was holding it down at his side. Although he had a fearsome look on his face, the tattoo on his jaw seemed to smile.

Wyoming skipped the last few feet up to Duke and towered over him like he was an ant. Nevada held back behind the group, while Texas walked up beside Kylie, keeping a eye on the mamluke while munching on his cigar.

Kylie fearfully eyed Wyoming; she had expected him to look more ordinary.

"I hath grown weary of these tiresome parlays. Are we here to negotiate young lapdog, or hast thou come to sell me a wasteland bitch like a market hawker?" Wyoming pointed to Ophelia with his sword.

"I'm here to discuss a truce," Duke stepped in front of Ophelia.

"Well, thoust knows myne terms," Wyoming spat into the rubble at Duke's feet, "and although I see thoust city burning, thoust foul Lord's head does not yet crown myne pike."

"That's true," Duke smiled, "but I thought you'd like to meet Ophelia."

Ophelia didn't move. Duke pushed her forward towards Wyoming, "this is Ophelia, _poor_ King Minos's only _maiden_ daughter."

Wyoming squinted at the blonde girl and wiped his mouth, "O-phe-li-a," he said her name slowly like he was sounding it out.

"She was hiding in the steel yard this whole time; we all thought she was dead. This slave found her," Duke glanced back to Kylie.

Kylie continued to watch Wyoming, who clasped his hands over his skull like he was having a migraine.

"Now you can take her back to the King and claim your prize," Duke turned back to face the Marauder leader.

Wyoming let go of his skull. His head jerked more violently then usual and he caught it with his hands.

Duke furrowed his brow perplexed, "are you okay?"

Wyoming slowly let go of his head. His eyes looked glassed. He stood with mouth agape for a moment, "fair Ophelia?"

"You can take her. Just leave the Pitt," Duke said more loudly.

Ophelia squinted at the strange, towering man. She didn't think she had ever seen him before but she wondered if he might recognize her, "I'm Ophelia," she took a nervous step towards him, "King Minos is my father. You know him?"

Wyoming's face grew gaunt and he looked ill. He leaned over and threw up a mouthful of bile into the rubble. He then stood back up and turned to Ophelia with a blistering stare.

Ophelia shirked under his gaze. She looked back to Kylie, "I'm sorry to have caused all of this. I know it was all my fault. I never should have run away from my father. I just wanted to be able to make my own decisions. Now I realize there are more important things than what will make me happy," Ophelia wiped her eyes, "I'm sorry all this had to happen. I am sure my father will reward you."

Wyoming didn't react. His face stayed cold as ice. He put the blade of his sword to his chest.

Ophelia didn't understand his demeanor, "tell my father I'm sorry. Take me home and I will marry whoever he chooses."

Wyoming continued to stare at Ophelia for what seemed like an eternity.

Duke shifted his feet, impatiently. Kylie looked to the other Marauders.

Wyoming then leaned into Ophelia and whispered into her ear, "get thee to a nunnery."

Ophelia brushed her hair back from her ear, "what?"

Wyoming backed up from her and began to pace, "why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners foul woman?" he cocked his head at Ophelia, staring daggers into her, "if thou needs marry, marry a fool! For wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them!"

"I'm sorry!" Ophelia looked over to Duke in confusion, "please, just lift the siege and take me back. I promise I will-"

"Go thee to a nunnery!" Wyoming screamed. His face was red, he was panting. He clasped his skull like he was having another migraine.

"What the fuck is going on?" Duke was indignant. He pointed to California and Wichita, "you all came here because of that girl. There she is! Take her and get the fuck out!"

Kylie anxiously watched Wyoming pant. His mouth was almost foaming. He turned and locked eyes with her.

"We don't have to fight anymore," Kylie said softly. She immediately regretted it.

Wyoming gave Kylie a frenzied nod and walked over to Ophelia.

Ophelia put her hand on the Marauder's chest to try and calm him, "I'll make sure my father-"

Wyoming grabbed her arms and screamed into her face **"GET THEE TO A NUNNERY!"**

He threw Ophelia down onto the rubble.

"What the fuck are you doing!" Duke screamed to the other Marauders, "she is the whole reason you all came here. . .can't you see he has lost it! He's insane. Take her and Lord Ashur -"

"Let the doors be **SHUT** upon the foul Lord that he may play the fool **NOWHERE** but in his **OWN **house!" Wyoming screamed while waiving his sword in the air.

"Please," Kylie turned to Texas. He seemed mesmerized by Wyoming's unusually fearsome ravings, "Just take her home!"

Duke looked at Nevada and Wichita, "if you don't take her to Minos I will," he walked forward and grabbed Ophelia's arm.

Ophelia rose up from the rubble slowly and looked between Duke and Wyoming.

Wyoming put his left hand up for a second. He bit his lip and it looked like he was trying to cool his rage. He slowly exhaled and then made a big smile. He then relaxed his pose and motioned with his fingers for Ophelia to walk over to him. His face became less flush and red.

Ophelia hesitated. She eased out of Duke's grasp and took Wyoming's hard hand.

"There, now it's over," Duke mumbled.

Wyoming gave Ophelia a warm smile. She smiled back to him. As she looked into his brooding eyes he jammed his short sword into her belly.

"Uagh," Ophelia collapsed onto the rubble clutching her stomach. Blood streamed down her dirty shirt and pants soaking them.

Duke was stunned. Before he could react, Wyoming drew a pistol and fired a round right into his forehead. Duke hit the ground like a rock.

Kylie screamed. She tried to run to Ophelia but Texas grabbed her from behind and put her in a bear hug.

Wyoming wiped the blood from his sword. He loomed over Ophelia, staring at her broken body with almost curious eyes. He slid his sword back into its sheath and turned around to face his men.

Nevada, Wichita, and Texas looked pale and horrified. Although none of them spoke a word, they seemed to ask him why with their eyes.

Wyoming was enraged by their questioning stares, "I came here to conquer a city! Not to find some **BITCH** wasteland girl!" he fired a shot straight into Ophelia's chest.

Ophelia was completely limp. Warm blood trickled down the rubble all around her and dripped into the broken street.

Kylie broke free of Texas's bear hug. As the other Marauders raised their weapons, she tried to tackle Wyoming. His massive size easily absorbed her charge and he grabbed her wrists.

"**Why**!" Kylie started crying.

Wyoming threw her down to the ground next to Ophelia. The Marauders went to shoot her, but Wyoming cowed them with an icy glare.

Kylie was hysterical. She leaned over Ophelia and brushed back her bloody, knotted hair, while sobbing. She then glared up at Wyoming with red eyes, "you are worse than Ashur!"

Wyoming eagerly nodded, "little nymph, I could accuse myneself of such things that it were better myne mother had not borne me. I am proud, violent, and vengeful with more offenses at my beck then I have time to act on them," he loomed over her, blocking out the setting sun, "but what should such fellows as I do, crawling between earth and heaven?"

He grabbed Kylie's slave collar and pulled her up to her feet so she was face to face with him. His cold eyes burned into her. The tattoo on his jaw seemed to speak for him, "we are arrant knaves, all. Believe us none!"

He let go of Kylie and she fell limp to the ground. He then walked towards the Marauder line. For a moment none of them moved.

Wyoming looked to them with a shrug. They looked away from his gaze.

"Be all myne sins remembered," he walked towards downtown.

All of the Marauders except California and Wichita followed.

California peered down at Kylie. She was pale, exhausted, and now in shock.

"You still got a reason to be here honey?" California smiled. She helped Kylie up to her feet and patted her on the back. Dust billowed out from her dirty clothes.

Kylie looked nervously at the two Marauders. Wichita had his pistol drawn and she wasn't sure if he was going to shoot her. She felt so numb she almost didn't care.

"Go on now, git," California smacked Kylie's butt and pointed towards the profile of Haven, "before your head pops off," she shoved her forward.

Kylie looked back to the Marauders once. She began to jog towards uptown, crying.

Wichita leaned over Ophelia's crumbled body. He put his finger to her wrist and checked for a pulse. Blood coated his fingers. Ophelia lay still.

California leaned over behind Wichita. Her long hair tickled the back of his neck. He turned back, looking up at her disgusted.

California gave him a wry smile, "looks like _you_ get to give her a princess's burial."


	8. Chapter 8

**- 12 -**

**Uptown**

"Mmmm. . .yes. . .ooh," California braced herself for Wyoming's next thrust. She wiggled her knees on the cot so they were slightly farther apart and she wouldn't be as tight. She then closed her eyes and focused on the feeling of him inside of her. It made her face feel flush. She curled her toes.

_Thwack._

"Hey!" her head shot around to Wyoming.

Wyoming was grinning. His naked chest glistened with dripping sweat.

"Nothing rough today. . .be gentle," California tossed her thick hair back. Her thigh was bright pink and stung from the sudden slap.

"But you hath always enjoyed-"

"Yeah. . .but not _today_. . .today I want to feel loved," California pouted.

"Myne little Aphrodite, whatever thou desires," Wyoming caressed her. He wrapped his fingers around her hair and gave it a gentle pull while whispering into her ear, "now, shhhh. . ."

Wyoming grabbed her thighs and pulled her back to the edge of the cot, so he could take his knees off the bed and stand upright with his feet on the floor.

California arched her back, pushing her butt higher up into the air and pressing her chest against the cot. As Wyoming began to continue she bit her lip, "mmmmm."

_Knock. Knock._

Someone was banging on the knocker sown onto the outside of Wyoming's tent.

Wyoming squinted at the noise. He pulled out of California and grimaced - he had always hated that sensation.

"Who goes there?" he called over his shoulder.

"Wichita," a grave voice carried into the tent.

"Ah," Wyoming scratched his sweaty scalp, suddenly giddy. He walked over to the front of the tent and unzipped the heavy green flap.

Wichita was standing outside under the dim morning sun. His face was pale and tired. He had dark bags under his eyes. He looked Wyoming's naked body up and down for a moment. He had never seen Wyoming naked, it made him uncomfortable.

Wyoming paid no attention to his own nakedness or Wichita's unease, "what doth thou seek, myne brother?"

Wichita fixated on Wyoming's deep brown eyes, "I want a word."

Wyoming's head jerked. He studied Wichita's troubled demeanor for a minute and then motioned for him to come inside the tent.

"Hello, Wichita," California said sheepishly as he entered. She covered up her breasts with her arms and draped a blanket over most of her body.

Wichita gave her a passing nod.

"What hast thou come to discuss?" Wyoming wiped his nose, still standing nude next to his subordinate.

Wichita bit his lip. He stared at the dirt floor for a minute, waiting for his commander to get dressed, but Wyoming seemed incapable of taking his hint.

California smiled at Wichita's uncomfortability. She rolled over onto her stomach and reached under the bed. She plucked an old towel from the tent floor and tossed it over to Wyoming.

"Many thanks," Wyoming began to wrap it around his waist, "Now what hast thou-"

"I want to discuss the siege," Wichita interrupted. His tone was dry; he glanced at California for a moment and then turned to Wyoming, trying to pretend she wasn't there.

"Certainly, Wichita," Wyoming put his finger to his lips and closed his eyes, "though now thou hast earned the right to be called Wichita no longer," he looked to California with a big grin, "henceforth young Wichita shall be known to all as 'Kansas.'"

Wyoming returned his gaze to Wichita, beaming.

Wichita looked like he had seen a ghost. His hands trembled at his sides - they were soaked in dried blood.

Wyoming frowned, "I thought thou would be more cheerful to be a true member of myne merry band. . . .and thou art normally such a jovial jester," Wyoming laughed, "Kentucky and Tennessee speak often of how thou imitates myne mannerisms and parlance to entertain and play the fool. But now thou seems so grim and sullen. What hath befallen you, myne brother?"

Wichita looked at him silently with a thousand yard stare.

"He's shell shocked," California muttered from the bed. She snatched a pack of cigarettes from a side table and fished around for one. The blanket fell off her shoulder, revealing her naked back all the way down to her butt crack. She glanced to Wichita with an impish smile.

Wichita's eyes lingered on her creamy skin. He caught himself looking at her and turned away, back to his commander.

Wyoming cocked his head, "doth she speak the truth myne brother?"

"What are we here for?" Wichita whispered.

Wyoming squinted at his subordinate. He sat down on the bed next to California, "now what doth thee _really_ inquire?"

Wichita took his time answering, "I don't understand why you did that to Ophelia," he paused, "why you killed her."

Wyoming laughed. He stood back up from the cot, "why? Why not? What art she to thee? I was sent to this foul Pitt to avenge the maiden's death. . . . and now I shall. . .seems fitting," he stopped, grinning, but then noticed Wichita wasn't amused, "hath the poor maiden a connection to thou? Doth thou have reason to so dutifully mourn her passing?"

"No, but we could have returned her to Minos. We could have gotten a mountain of caps for her. Likely more than we can ever scrounge from this Pitt, shithole. Killing her was pointless. I can't. . ._resolve _that."

Wyoming nodded, "is wealth all thou thinks on, Kansas?"

"No. I've been thinking on why I'm here. I didn't join up for caps - you know that. I joined the Marauders for something, something that I knew at the time. . .maybe just the journey. . .but now, now when I look around I don't know why I'm here. It's lost all meaning. . ."

Wyoming put a sweaty arm around Wichita, which made him almost recoil, "we all seek something in life myne brother. I seek glory and triumph. I shant be another wanderer who dies unknown and unremarkable - not with all God hath bestowed upon me. . .," Wyoming paused, "doth not the glory of toppling the foul Lord and reducing his wicked city to ruin tweak thoust manhood? Think on all the grand ballads the wasteland minstrels shall sing hereafter to commemorate thyne gallant feat. . .what could be more thrilling an adventure to a young knave like thouself?"

Wichita thought for a moment, "I don't want _that_. I'm tired of throwing myself to the wolves for thrills. I've come face to face with death enough times and now I want purpose. . .and I'm not finding it here. . .anymore," Wichita stopped. He thought he may have gone too far.

Wyoming nodded and let go of him, "well if thou no longer hath the stomach for this fight, then leave. Tuck your short tail betwixt your legs and run away like a crying bitch. I shall tell myne Marauders not to interfere with your departure."

"I can leave?" Wichita said surprised.

"Myne brother, we are but small craft, cast adrift in a dark, churning sea. Our only compass, our only guide, art our polestar. Sometimes as we follow our lonely star through the dark night, we happen upon others adrift like ourselves. Occasionally we find our stars align with theirs, and for a time we call one another brother and follow our stars together. But, when those stars align no longer, then we must cut our lines and drift our separate ways, for each of us hath but one star to follow," Wyoming paused, "so tell me Kansas, do our stars align no longer?"

Wichita mulled over the question, "no. . .they don't."

Wyoming nodded and walked over to the tent door. He parted the flaps, "then go, and I shall wish all the more luck to thee on thoust future travels."

Wichita hesitated, "you aren't going to kill me for deserting?"

"After all our time together in this merry band me thinks thou hast the earned right to leave. . .young Kansas, I always saw such intellect and ambition dwelling inside thee. . .a budding leader, why I selected thou to join myne merry band. But if that leader cannot blossom here let him flower elsewhere," Wyoming motioned for Wichita to leave.

Wichita nodded slowly. He stooped to walk out of the tent but paused at the threshold. He gave California a final, longing glance, before ducking back outside into the early morning.

California took a long drag on her cigarette. She smiled and squinted at Wyoming through the now smoky tent, with a look of amusement, "you're just going to let him leave, a coward?"

Wyoming paused in contemplation, "in the end, conscience doth make cowards of us all."

(******************************************************)

Kylie slowly crawled to the top of a pile of broken bricks and splintered wood near the very edge of uptown. Haven was half a mile ahead of her, towering over the twisted ruins of uptown, charred black by the fires set by the Marauders. Between her and the citadel was a rubble strewn battlefield, littered with the bodies of bosses, Marauders, and slaves who had been killed during last night's ferocious Marauder advance towards Haven.

Kylie had wedged herself between a rusted car and narrow storm gutter all night, ducking out of sight from the bosses, and shirking from the roars of battle. She was completely exhausted – she hadn't been able to sleep for almost three days with all the chaos of war.

Ophelia haunted her. She was another shadowy ghost who invaded Kylie's consciousness anytime she tried to think or clear her head, reminding her that in a way she had become just like the bosses.

Kylie had imagined that after turning Ophelia in, the war would have ended, and Ashur would have let her go free for helping him. Kylie realized the latter hope was naïve when dealing with men as merciless as the bosses, but if she _had_ ended the war at least she and the other slaves could have stopped fighting. Now the war would grind on regardless, until she and everyone else in the Pitt was dead, just like the dirty bodies rotting all around her.

_She helped me and_ _I betrayed her. . . I used her. . .I killed her. . .for nothing. . ._

Kylie curled up on the side of the rubble pile. She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself by concentrating only on her breathing. Throughout her life, she had always tried to do the right thing. Now she had no idea what that was. It certainly wasn't fighting for Ashur. She was done with that and had resolved never to return to Haven. Duke hadn't told anyone of his meeting with Wyoming, so she had no fixed time to report back to her mamluke unit. She wouldn't know when the bosses would realize she was missing. She figured her only clue would be when they blew her collar. Its cold steel dug into her collar bone. She wondered if she'd have any warning when it was going to explode, or if she'd even feel it before everything went dark.

Her entire world had swirled into chaos.

Her life as a slave had been utterly miserable, yet rigidly structured. There were slaves and bosses, lords and subjects. She had her place; it was a lowly place on the totem pole, but it was a settled place none the less. She knew what to expect day in and day out, she knew how she would be treated, and how to behave.

Now, with the war, everything had been turned upside-down. The slaves were the elite soldiers; the bosses were bleached bones on the battlefield. Dukes and princesses were killed without a thought like rats, while lowly slave girls like her were randomly spared from the slaughter. The Pitt's liberators seemed worse than its oppressors and the only route of escape seemed to lie with death.

As Kylie pondered how long it would be until her own death, she noticed that one of the dead bosses slumped over the debris in front of her was still clutching an assault rifle. She leaned over the rubble and went to snatch the weapon from his cold fingers.

"Hehehehehe. . . ."

Kylie froze, listening to the quiet laughter echo across the uptown rubble. A few hundred feet in front of her, across a narrow street, next to a tall burned out orphanage, she saw a man bobbing up and down between the bodies of the dead bosses. He was stripping the gear from each one of their mangled bodies and pocketing any valuable cargo he could find. He was a caramel colored black man, with short curly hair, and a hairy, bare chest. As Kylie examined him more closely from her cover behind the rubble pile she realized who he was – Trouble Man.

Trouble Man had retreated into the depths of the Pitt during the siege, keeping to the dark corners of the city still teeming with trogs and cackling Wildmen. During the lull that had ensued after last night's battle, he had decided to scavenge cargo from the fallen before finally making his way out to the hills, clear of the city.

Trouble Man was now squatting over the body of Bingo, a violent, ogre-like boss, who was obsessed with his appearance. His body was covered in jewelry stolen from new arrivals – he had a silver chain around his neck, a diamond stud though his eyebrow, and three shiny gold teeth. Trouble Man busied himself with ripping the valuables off of Bingo's tight skin, still stiff from rigor mortis.

Kylie raised her rifle over the rubble pile and took aim at Trouble Man. She hated the bosses and the Marauders for what they had forced her to do and what she felt she had become.

As Kylie took aim at him, a single Marauder hopped down from a second story window of the orphanage, just to the right of Trouble Man. He caught Trouble Man completely off guard, pointing a combat shotgun at Trouble Man's chest before he could react.

Trouble Man looked at the Marauder and slowly stood up from Bingo's bloody body. He passively raised his hands at his sides.

The Marauder's skin and armor were grey from dust. He seemed tense and edgy, riding the dregs of an adrenaline high from last night's fearsome battle.

"Who the fuck are you?" the Marauder didn't edge up on his weapon, unsure if Trouble Man was an enemy or an allied raider.

Trouble Man squinted his cloudy eye at the Marauder and seemed to look past him towards Kylie's direction, "I'm Trouble Man."

"That supposed to mean something to me asshole?" the Marauder spat.

Trouble Man cocked his head like he was confused, "you don't want to know how I got the name."

As the Marauder contemplated Trouble Man's cryptic response, Kylie squeezed her trigger and shot him through the back of the neck.

The Marauder instantly collapsed dead onto the ground.

Trouble Man looked over to Kylie. A big grin crept across his ashy face. He continued to smile as she cautiously approached.

Kylie walked towards Trouble Man with her weapon ready. She eyed him down the rifle's sight, prepared to drop the raider at any moment without hesitation.

"Hehehe," Trouble Man began to laugh at her, his eyes following her every movement.

Kylie paused next to the Marauder's body to retrieve his weapon. She knelt down next to him while keeping her rifle leveled at Trouble Man.

While Kylie plucked the weapon from the dead Marauder, Trouble Man reached down into a small satchel at his side. The small sack was bursting full of cargo he had scavenged from the bodies scattered across the battlefield. As Kylie rose up from the Marauder, he pulled his hand out of the satchel and tossed something metallic at Kylie's feet.

Kylie's eyes shot to the strange object. She watched it sparkle under the morning light. It was a skeleton key - Jackson's master key to the slave collars.

She immediately snatched the key from the rubble.

"Thank you . .," Kylie muttered, her rifle still trained on Trouble Man's chest.

Trouble Man said nothing. He continued to grin as Kylie slowly backed away from him, never letting down her guard.

Kylie pocketed the master key and began to make her way towards Haven, keeping Trouble Man in her sights until he was well out of view.

(******************************************************)

"You need anything else up here or are you all set?" Nevada walked up behind Florida.

Florida was perched on the fifth story of one of uptown's high rises, just across the square from Haven. She was taking her turn as sniper. Her long blonde hair fluttered in the afternoon breeze. She was staring though her scope into Haven's far off windows. She could see the shadows of Ashur's soldiers fortifying the building for the final battle.

Florida looked up from her sight and turned around, smiling to Nevada, "I got two crates of .50 cal up here. I think I'll be fine."

"If you say so," Nevada winked. He couldn't help but admire Florida. She was a tall, lanky woman with long legs and broad shoulders. Her skin was flawless like she had been carved from porcelain. In her Marauder armor she looked like a beautiful Amazon, who could take down the most fearsome warrior.

"What's my signal to storm the castle?" Florida turned back to Haven.

"Wyoming said for you to stay here until he's able to breach Haven's defenses. . .so it looks like you're on clean up duty," he softly put his hand on her armored shoulder, "should be a nice, quiet change of pace after having to take that bridge."

Florida eyed his hand, slightly bothered, "wasn't so bad. I like to be in the thick of things."

"I like to be as far away from the action as possible," Nevada removed his hand and began to walk towards the building's stairwell, "but I guess that's why I'm an artillery man."

Nevada paused as he entered the stairwell. He heard footsteps echoing up from below, "who's down there?"

"It's me," Wichita crested a landing and peered up at Nevada. Nevada's face was rough and unshaven; he looked like a younger version of his mentor, Texas, sans the obligatory crumbly cigar.

"Huh? Did Wyoming post two snipers up here then?" Nevada called down to him.

Florida stood up from her position and turned to see who was coming.

"No," Wichita came to the top of the stairs, "I wanted to talk with Florida for a minute," he looked to her, "in private."

"Ah, I see," Nevada gave Wichita a big grin. He then glanced back to Florida, "if you get tired of this joker flirting with you, let me know," he laughed and walked past Wichita down the stairs.

"Wichita," Florida beamed with a big smile, "haven't seen you in days."

"Missed you," he walked over to her and put his arms around her thin, armored waist. The two of them kissed. Florida's hair blew into his face and she laughed as he brushed it from his eyes.

"You come all the way up here for a kiss?" Florida licked her lips longingly.

"No, just to see you."

"Such a sweetie," Florida pecked him on the cheek and began to walk back to her sniper position.

"I'm leaving," Wichita muttered.

"Huh?" Florida tuned around and scrunched her face, "where are you going? Wyoming put you on the artillery line?"

"No, I'm leaving the Pitt. I'm leaving the Marauders," Wichita said solemnly.

"What?" Florida's face went pale, "you're deserting? Does Wyoming know?"

"Yeah, I told him this morning. He gave me his blessing and said I could leave. I got my things and am going to make my way across the Allegheny," his eyes trembled.

"So this is goodbye?" Florida sucked in her pale cheeks. Her eyelids twitched.

"No," Wichita put his hands on her waist again, "I mean, I hope not. . . why don't you come with me."

"What?" Florida almost laughed, "are you serious?"

"What do you have to stay for?" Wichita eased past her and peered out at Haven, "do you even know why you're here?"

Florida shouldered her weapon, "what do you mean?"

"I bet half of you won't make it out of here and for what? Wyoming's whim? He may be smart and all of that but he treats us like we're expendable," Wichita spit out of the window.

"_We are_. He treats himself the same way. He takes the same risks. He doesn't think he's any better than us," Florida scowled at Wichita.

"I know, but that's just it. He doesn't care if he dies tomorrow or why. . .its all about his whim. . .I mean. . .you know what he did to that princess, Ophelia?"

Florida nodded, "Nevada told me."

Wichita edged closer to her, "did he tell you why?"

"I don't think he knew."

Wichita nodded to himself, "well I asked Wyoming why and honestly I don't think he knew either. He gets so caught up with the things in his head that sometimes I don't think he can tell what's real and what's not, or he doesn't care. He killed that princess for no fucking reason - we could have taken her back to Minos and ended this siege without all of us having to risk our lives. We would have been well paid, we would have been able to leave this shithole, and we still would have won in the end. What are we going to win now? We take Haven and then what? Its a dead city. Wyoming's become completely irrational. If we're going to take a city there should be a reason behind it. Its not just a challenge – he treats it like a game. If I'm asked to put my life on the line or to send a bunch of locals to their slaughter there should be good fucking reason why he's asking me to do it. . . his whim isn't enough," Wichita looked up from the floor.

Florida looked at Wichita sadly, "I've followed Wyoming for almost half my life. I trust his judgment. He knows why we're here and I trust his reasons, even if he can't articulate them to you. He's never steered us in the wrong direction."

Wichita shook his head, "he's not _steering_ us anywhere, we're just adrift."

"Maybe he felt he didn't have to justify himself to you. You've only been patched in for maybe a day," she sarcastically smiled to Wichita but could tell he wasn't satisfied with her explanation, "maybe we _are _just following his whims, but I'm fine with that. I'm happy with my life Wichita. I'm a fucking Marauder. Maybe that doesn't mean a lot to you but I've seen half the US, I've helped conquer cities, I've gotten drunk with NCR councillors and have feasted with Midwestern Kings. What would be out there for me if I left, Wichita? Just a huge, empty wasteland. . ."

Wichita kissed her, "I'd be with you."

Florida pulled away, "I really like you Wichita, but that's not enough. The two of us drifting alone in the desert, I think it would swallow us up. . .the Marauders are my family, the first I've ever had. Wyoming doesn't have to justify himself to me, his word is enough. It has always been enough," she gave him a final smile, "I hope you change your mind before you can't turn back."

"I. . .I can't turn back now. There is _something_ I have to do," Wichita bit his lip.

"Then good luck with it," Florida walked back to her post. She frowned to herself, "I hope our paths cross again."

"I hope so too," Wichita muttered. He began to walk towards the stairwell. He took one last, sad look at Florida. He thought she looked like a goddess. He shook his head and began to walk downstairs.

Wichita slipped out of the city to the rumbles of the approaching final battle.


	9. Chapter 9

**- 13 -**

**Dénouement**

Ray pressed his right eye up against a thin crack in the inner wall and peered outside into the falling darkness. Haven's spacious courtyard was criss-crossed with barb wire and dotted with mines. At the center of the concrete plaza was a towering iron sculpture of a kneeling slave. Between its bent legs was a steel bridge that stretched across a large, ornamental pond that guarded the front of Haven like a castle moat. All around the statute and moat were decorative gardens, surrounded by high stone walls. The gardens were planted with green grass and tall weeds that billowed in the night breeze.

The colossus at the center of the plaza had been commissioned by Ashur when he first became Lord of the Pitt. It was an enormous iron latticework crudely welded into the image of a slave, kneeling in chains before Haven and the bosses. The colossus was not only meant to inspire awe and obedience from the slaves, it was also built to serve as a reminder to the bosses that they too were slaves to their city and its sole master.

From what Ray could see, the plaza was empty. However, at the very edge of the plaza where Haven melded into the high-rises of uptown, he could see several high mounds of piled debris - the Marauders' defensive ramparts.

Ray had been told that the Marauders were readying for their final assault on Haven. There were less then a hundred Marauders, but their ranks were augmented by hundreds of escaped slaves who Wyoming had forcibly conscripted into service. Those slaves would be the first wave, leading the charge into the teeth of Haven's defenses, straight into Ray's current position.

Ray was troubled at the thought of having to kill more fellow slaves. Over his time as a mamluke, he had come to think of them as brothers in bondage.

"Stay back from the walls," 100 barked to his men from the center of the large room.

As Ray turned back to glare at his commander, a Marauder artillery shell slammed into Haven, six stories above the mamlukes. The whole structure groaned and dust drizzled down from the reinforced ceiling.

The mamlukes were assembling on the second floor of Haven, in a large open foyer lined with weapons and ammunition. They were arming and armoring themselves to be the first line of defense at Haven's front door.

Ray didn't believe that Haven had much of a chance against the Marauders. The Marauders had too many men and too much fire power for the mamlukes or bosses to be able to hold out for very long. Ray actually doubted that the Marauders would attempt to storm Haven at all. They could shell the citadel from a distance at will and could simply pound Haven with their artillery until it collapsed into a graveyard of rubble.

However, Ray wasn't trying to understand the Marauders' tactics. He was too busy reflecting on his own life. No matter what the exact outcome of this battle was, Ray knew this was his last stand. He would be buried one way or another.

"When all of you are ready, line up. All even numbers take positions on ground level, all odds at the top of the stairwell and behind the banisters!" 100 shouted.

Another artillery round crashed into Haven followed by a series of shouts up and down the Marauder line. The machinegunners and snipers positioned in Haven's upper story windows opened fire. The walls all around the mamlukes rumbled from battle.

100 scanned his assembled mamlukes. They looked fatigued and demoralized. They were covered in filth, gunpowder, and blood from days of ceaseless fighting.

"Lord Ashur has proclaimed that all of you will become bosses after this siege has been lifted," 100 screamed over the commotion, "so fight well – to the death!"

Lance skipped over to Ray and whispered in his ear, "you hear that?" he raised his assault rifle with a grin, "we're free men now."

"Bullshit," Ray spat, "Ashur knows none of us are making it out of here. Only freedom we get will be when we're dead."

"I don't know. . ." Lance shrugged, "I have a good feeling."

Ray gravely nodded.

Footsteps began to echo up from Haven's atrium, alarming 100. He moved into cover around a doorframe and peered down to Haven's entrance door, rifle ready, "who's there? Identify yourself!"

A raider boss slowly walked into Haven's foyer from the outside courtyard. He was followed by a dirty slave girl, chafing under her slave collar. The boss and slave put their hands up and stared towards the mamluke unit, positioned at the top of the grand staircase.

"Niels!" the boss called out "it's me, Reddup. Lower your weapons!"

Ray peered down at the slave next to Reddup, "Kylie!"

100 signaled for the mamlukes to relax. He waived Reddup and Kylie upstairs.

"I thought all the bosses were already in postion," 100 huffed.

"I was finishing the minefield when this one came back to me," Reddup shoved Kylie towards 100, "she was worried her collar was going to blow. . . .you know her?"

Kylie didn't look up at 100, "commander," she said meekly.

"32?" 100 paused, "yes. . . rejoin your unit 32 . . . and quickly, we're falling out!" 100 hurried Kylie off.

Kylie marched away from 100 and Reddup, over to a table stacked high with rifles and pistols. She picked up an assault rifle from the spread and loaded a magazine. Her hands were cold and shaking. She looked gaunt.

Ray noticed Kylie's nervousness. He walked over to comfort her, "Kylie, glad to see you again. Where have you been, you missed some real hell last night."

Kylie checked to see if 100 or Reddup were watching her. She then reached down into her armor and pulled out the skeleton key. She showed it to Ray.

"A parting gift from Jackson," Kylie took a deep swallow and unlocked her slave collar. Her eyes quivered.

"What. .. what are you doing?" Ray gaped at her wide-eyed.

"Allowing you to escape. Once your free just go - don't try to help me."

The battle picked up outside, drowning out all noise in the foyer with a deafening roar. Kylie's collar fell off of her neck and clanked on the floor.

The next few seconds devolved into a blur.

Kylie tossed the skeleton key over to Ray and pivoted with her rifle, taking aim at Reddup while he was still talking to 100. She shot him once in the chest, and he toppled down onto the ground. She then leveled her rifle at 100.

Ray was stunned by what had just happened. He was unprepared for the toss and the key bounced off his chest and landed on the floor. He ducked down and fumbled around on the concrete, trying to retrieve it.

100 reached into his pocket to grab the control to detonate Kylie's collar. He hadn't noticed she was off her leash.

"Stop!" Kylie screamed at 100. She menaced him with her rifle, "I have the key to our collars. 100, you're free," she paused, hoping 100 would relax but he was fuming, "we're all free."

100 blindly charged Kylie like a rhinoceros. He slammed into her before she could get a shot off.

"**BITCH**!" 100 took Kylie down to the ground and began to slap her face, "how did you get the key! Where is it! What did you fucking do!"

Kylie tried to kick 100 off of her but he was too burly and heavy. She balled up and put her hands in front of her face to block his blows, "100! Stop! We're free! You're free! Its over!"

"**Traitor**!" 100 continued to beat her in a frenzy. His fists pummeled her face like two beefy sludge hammers. He head butted her, giving her a black eye, and then slammed her head against the floor, over and over again, until she was half unconscious.

Ray scooped the key up from the ground and inserted it into his collar.

"Don't you fucking try that! I will take your head off right now!" 100 snarled to Ray. He stood up from Kylie.

A few of the mamlukes had begun to take aim at 100.

"Stand down! I will blow all of your heads off, every last one of you!" 100 screamed at his soldiers.

They backed away.

100 looked over to Ray again, "_you_, give me that fucking key right now!"

While 100 was turned towards Ray, Kylie stood up behind him, wobbly from a concussion.

Ray was pale as a ghost. He watched in silence as 100 approached.

"Turn it over or you're dead!" 100 roared.

The key's cold metal burned into Ray's palm. His eyes darted over to Lance, looking for some sign of what to do. Lance looked as dumbfounded as he was.

"Give me the key!" 100 screeched.

Kylie staggered up behind 100 and shot him in the back. As 100 cried out in pain, he turned around and grabbed a fistful of Kylie's hair, taking her back down to the ground. Kylie dropped her weapon as 100 collapsed on top of her. He dug his knees into her chest and choked her while she clawed at his face with her fingernails.

"Everyone, back the fuck away! Don't any of you dare unlock your collars!" 100 screamed like a banshee. He was still on top of Kylie, squeezing her neck as hard as he could. He was foaming with rage.

Ray momentarily froze, transfixed by what was happening.

100 screamed for the bosses on the upper levels to aide him. His shouts were muffled by a thunderous impact that shook Haven's walls. The building shifted from from the shockwave.

100 was distracted by the sudden jolt. Kylie reached up and fishhooked his mouth with her bloody fingers.

"Urahhhh!"

"Take this!" Ray threw the key to Lance. He then charged 100 and pounced on top of him, trying to tear him off of Kylie.

Together, Ray and Kylie pinned 100's arms to the ground, immobilizing him so he couldn't detonate the slave collars. As 100 writhed in their grasp, Lance unlocked his own collar. He ran up and put a single shot into 100's dirty forehead.

"Told you I had a good feeling!" Lance tossed the key back to Ray.

Ray didn't respond, he was too busy checking Kylie to make sure she was still breathing. Her face looked like raw meat - bloody and mangled. Her left eye was swollen shut. She had fallen down to her knees, too woozy to stand from 100's blows.

Within a few moments, the other mamlukes were able to unlock their collars. They followed Lance down the stairs to ground level.

"Let's make a break for it! We can all meet up in the steel yard!" Lance swung open the door to the courtyard. He waived for everyone to follow him outside, "Ray! We have to go now! The Marauders are storming the plaza!"

"Kylie, can you make it?" Ray tried to pull her to her feet, but she slipped out of his grasp, back down to the ground.

"Just go," Kylie threw up on the concrete. Blood dripped out from her nose. The room seemed to spin.

Lance peered out the doorway, "Ray! Come on! Now!" he disappeared outside into the night.

"I'm not going to leave you!" Ray grabbed Kylie and half carried her down the stairwell, "try to run!"

The mamlukes charged outside, ducking fire from all sides, before disappearing into the darkness.

(**********************************************************************)

"This assault is completely unnecessary," Utah mumbled. He was walking alongside Wyoming, with Kentucky and Tennessee at his heels.

Wyoming paid him no attention. His gaze was fixed dead ahead. He was examining the defensive works the former Pitt slaves had assembled for the Marauders. They had gathered up chunks of rubble, rusted cars, and various other debris that littered the Pitt and had stacked it all into tall ramparts. These bulwarks lined the edges of uptown, blocking all incoming fire from Haven, and obscuring the staging area for the assault from spying snipers. Huddled below these high ramparts were their assemblers, hundreds of former Pitt slaves who had been armed by the Marauders to be the first wave. They looked frightened and emaciated. As they watched Wyoming approach, they whispered to one another in hushed tones over the roars of the Marauder artillery fire.

"This assault is what we hath come for," Wyoming sniffed. He pulled on his fiery roman helmet and drew his short sword.

Utah shook his head, "we don't have to do this. If we just give Texas some more time-"

"This is _myne_ moment!" Wyoming snarled. He cocked his head at the other Marauders, "this is how the story the ends. This art the climatic final battle," he continued forwards.

Wyoming darted up to the top of one of the ramparts, next to the ruins of an ancient US Post Office. He positioned himself above the assembled slaves so that the flags atop the building would be his backdrop. The old flags fluttered in the night sky as it flashed bright from the bursts of Texas's artillery fire.

"Myne shackled brothers and sisters!" Wyoming roared from his grand stage, "now art the time to break thoust bondage. Now art the time to charge gallantly into the tips of thyne enemy's spears! Now art the time to repay them in kind for their sins and to make their fortress their funeral pyre!"

Wyoming paused to gauge the crowd's reaction.

The mass of slaves stared at Wyoming emptily. They looked miserable and visibly shook with terror.

Wyoming's head jerked right. He began to pace atop the rampart. A shell lit up the sky like a flash of lighting. A sniper's bullet whizzed by his helment.

"Think on what they hath done to you myne shackled brothers! Those foul demons in the cursed castle hath murdered thoust mothers and brothers. They hath raped thoust wives and locked thoust children in chains! They hath made thoust seed sterile - they hath robbed thou of everything! Art not you going to make them pay in seared flesh and broken bone!"

The slaves were still too frightened or weary to react. They cowered from Wyoming's presence. The Marauders began to line up behind them, readying themselves for the attack.

An artillery shell scored a direct hit on Haven. The explosion looked like a giant firework. The façade of Haven cracked, making a giant spider web pattern on the building's face of shattered brick and blasted metal

Wyoming's head spasmed once more. He spit into the dirt, "this art thoust chance to stand up for freedom and to live as free men! This art thoust chance to die as free men, gloriously in battle! This art thoust chance to become martyrs to freedom and to wipe out the Foul Lord and his accursed Pitt forever!"

Wyoming chest heaved as he panted, out of breath. The flags billowed behind him. He had expected the slaves to be emboldened by his oratory but they still cringed below. Some were weeping. Most looked like they were still in shock from this endless nightmare.

Wyoming was incensed, "I hath though thou were not born on thoust knees, bowing, but were born free men! I hath thought thou still had courage, honor, and manhood! Art thou going to let King Claudius - that foul Lucifer - continue to sit fat and happy on his gilded throne? Art thou going to let him mock you from the safety of his castle, Haven - the citadel built upon the toil of thoust own broken backs!"

Wyoming was seething. Under his helmet his face was beet red.

A huge Marauder artillery shell slammed down at the feet of Ashur's colossus, shearing off one of its iron legs. The tall latticework let out a loud groan and began to collapse onto its side in a bird's nest of twisted iron.

Wyoming watched the colossus tumble and took it as a omen, "now myne brothers, myne freedom fighters! Sally forth! Kill for your freedom or be shot where you stand! Charge the castle - myne soldiers, **ATTACK**!"

Dozens of slaves went up and over the rubble pile, charging towards Haven. The machineguns and snipers began to cut them down. A few stepped on land mines and the resulting explosions lit up the sky.

The rest of the slaves stayed huddled behind the ramparts too scared to move. Their fear drove Wyoming into a frenzy, his eyes burned through his helmet's visor like hellfire.

"Ye women! Ye cravens! I told you - **ATTACK**!" Wyoming grabbed a slave by his hair and pulled him to the top of the rampart. He kicked him down the other side, into the battlefield.

The Marauders cocked their rifles and leveled them at the slaves like an execution squad. The rest of the slaves finally pressed forward, up and over the rubble.

Haven's defenders continued to rain down fire. The charging slaves waded into the minefield, the barb wire, and the cross fire. As artillery shells went off over head, they became mired in the quagmire and were cut to pieces. There were wails from the wounded all across the plaza.

The Marauders watched the carnage from the bulwarks. Haven's courtyard filled with the glowing trails of tracers arcing up and down from the tall citadel. The Marauder snipers set up in the surrounding high-rises tried to suppress Haven's gunners, but there were too many of them. They continued putting ferocious fire down on the slaves, bogging down their charge, snuffing their advance.

When Wyoming saw that the attack was floundering, he turned back to his Marauders. He waived for them to follow the slaves into the slaughter.

"Myne Marauders! Quickly now, whilst the omens are still for us! Charge forth and bring the foul Lord his reckoning!"

The Marauders didn't budge, gawking at the annihilation taking place in the courtyard. The machineguns did another sweep of the plaza cutting down anything that moved. A slave stepped on a mine and disappeared into a cloud of gore.

"Knaves! Cowards! Fools! Hath I raised an army of women and traitors!"

Haven's machine guns again swept the courtyard, finishing off any resistance. As they did so, the front doors of Haven swung wide open. A large squad of thirty Haven defenders stormed out into the courtyard and tried to make a break for safety. Haven's machineguns pivoted to track them.

Wyoming seized upon the sight, pointing towards the deserters with his glimmering sword, "fools! Doth not you see that thyne enemies turn tail and run! They hath abandoned the foul Lord to his fate. Now is the hour of thyne victory! Haven shall burn and all who stay here shall burn with it!"

Wyoming reached up and snapped one of the old flags off its post. He waived it in the air from the very top of the rampart like an ancient banner man. Sniper fire kicked up the rubble and dust at his feet.

"Follow me, all who doth not mutiny!" Wyoming pointed the flag towards Haven which flashed with gunfire. He began to charge the plaza alone, "if none among you hath the manhood to join, may all the glory be unto me!"

The surreal site of Wyoming leading the charge against Haven, flag in hand, inspired the Marauders to go up and over the ramparts. They followed in Wyoming's path as he zigzagged across the courtyard, dodging fire and leaping over mines before he reached the twisted ruins of the colossus. California was just behind him, weaving her way across the barb wire, keeping to the tracks of the dead slaves who had cleared the path of mines.

Wyoming pushed on, oblivious to the danger. Bullets impacted all around him but none struck him down. He was the first man to reach Haven's giant entrance doors.

As the Marauders looked across the plaza they could see Wyoming standing at Haven's threshold, waving the flag high in the air, dressed in full battle regalia. The scene looked like a painting or war memorial.

California poked up from her cover behind a concrete garden. The vision of Wyoming standing at Haven's threshold, waiving the flag, while the sky flashed from the artillery looked like a dream.

The Marauders behind her pushed forward, trying to reach Haven.

California rose up to join them. A sniper's bullet struck her just below her left eye.

(**********************************************************************)

Ashur sat solemnly at his desk, his back to the large windows that overlooked the Pitt. The windows behind him flashed bright as the battle raged on outside. He could hear that the fierce firefight had entered his sanctuary. Gunfire rumbled up from the stairwells. Every second seemed to tick by slowly. It felt like a freight train was bearing down on him and he couldn't get off the tracks.

He lazily pulled open a drawer to his mahogany desk. In it was a shiny, black .44 magnum. Ashur pulled out its cylinder and began to load a round into each individual chamber. He gave the cylinder a satisfying spin like he was playing Russian Roulette and then snapped it back in place. He took a small sip of scotch and then pointed the pistol towards the open door to the hall. He turned his eyes to a photograph on his desk. It was of himself, his wife Sandra, and their toddler Marie. Marie's young eyes twinkled at him. He smiled to her and went to put the barrel of his pistol to his temple. As he did so, he noticed a shadow looming in the doorway.

Wyoming was standing at his threshold. He was covered in blood and grime, and was panting from his charge. His body seemed to twitch from adrenaline. He pulled off his helmet and his eyes burned with fire.

Ashur tried to take in the fearsome man in front of him. Wyoming was still clutching the tattered flag and his roman sword was now bloody.

"So this art the foul Lord himself?" Wyoming thundered, "what a miserable little insect is myne enemy."

Ashur lowered his weapon, "you must be Wyoming."

"I am your death, evil Lord. I am the ignorant hand of blind justice. I hath come to put you under myne knife and to relieve you of the stinking head that crowns your foul shoulders!"

Ashur nodded, "well you can tell Minos this has all been a waste. I have no idea what happened to Ophelia. I have no idea why you're here or what you believe this will accomplish. You may think that I am evil, but I have only done what was necessary. You have no idea what it took to build a functioning city from this Pitt."

"Woe be unto he who uses misery as mortar. Woe be unto he who uses bones as bricks. Woe be unto he who builds a city from sorrow. Woe be onto he - Lord of the Pitt!"

Ashur took aim at Wyoming.

Two Marauders charged down the hall. They took positions behind Wyoming on either side of the doorway, ready to drop Ashur before he could fire.

Wyoming chuckled, "thou wishes to die like a dog?"

Ashur squinted in irritation. He lowered his weapon slightly, "I'll die however you wish - if you spare my family. My wife-."

"Spare the bitch who hath spread her legs to the Lord of the beasts? Ha!" Wyoming pointed to a scalp at his side. It was a woman's scalp, a pony tail of long chestnut hair, soaked with fresh blood, "I hath flayed the little whore and will use her dried skins as my vestments! Pray your own skull doth not become myne chalice!"

"Sandra!" Ashur pushed back his chair and shot to his feet. He leveled his pistol at Wyoming, "fucking animal!"

"Put down thoust weapon," Wyoming scoffed, "_that_ art not a king's death. A king doth not die like a lowly slave or soldier. . . he doth die more nobly."

Ashur stared at Wyoming with icy eyes. He backed up closer to the windows, "how _does_ a king die?"

Wyoming raised his sword, "he falls on his sword. . .or is cut down by the blade of another."

Ashur slowly sat back down in his chair. He put his .44 to his temple, "then I will fall on my sword," Ashur closed his eyes, "if nothing else, don't harm Marie. She is just a child. . .," he cocked the magnum.

"If _that_ be thoust death so be it," Wyoming motioned for Ashur to lower the pistol from his skull, "but don't mangle myne prize! I hath sacrificed many to be able to retrieve your foul head whole. Don't require me to scrape it from the walls of thoust study, lest you raise myne ire against the little seed!"

Ashur pressed the muzzle of his pistol to his throat and fired one shot. His face smacked onto the desk.

Wyoming used his sword to hack off his precious prize while it was still warm.


	10. Chapter 10

**-14-**

**Aftermath**

Wyoming peered out at the Pitt through the breaking dawn. Most of the city had been reduced to smoldering ruins from the Marauder siege. The last fires from the prior night were slowly burning down to cinders, and the morning breeze had cleared away the dark smoke that hung over the city like fog.

Everything around Wyoming was shattered and broken. Haven was a burned-out shell, less than half of its original size. Bodies littered its entrance and clogged the narrow alleys next to the building.

There was very little left of the Pitt, and Wyoming saw no point in remaining. The slaves on both sides whom had made it through the final battle had slipped away into the uninhabited sections of the city and the steel yard. There, they were arming themselves and regrouping. These hastily formed bands had begun to attack the Marauders during the night, trying to drive them out like freedom fighters.

Wyoming had neither the wish nor will to fight them. Having become the sole Lord of the Pitt, there was no reason to stay. It was a complete ruin - he saw nothing left that was worth fighting for.

After the battle ended, Wyoming ordered the Marauders to pack up in preparation for their next voyage. Many had deserted during the night, having lost faith in the wisdom or sanity of their commander. Those who hadn't disbanded were now making their way back across Liberty Bridge, over to the surrounding hills, clear of the wasted city.

While Wyoming watched the Marauders march off in an orderly, blue column, he noticed a familiar body lying in the rubble around him, near the entrance to Haven. It was California. She was slumped over a small, ornamental garden, part of the decorative walkway that extended out from Haven's lobby.

Texas, Nevada, and Florida had gathered around her to pay their respects.

Wyoming walked over to see her for himself, one last time.

California's body was tucked into a tight fetal position in the shallow grass. A pool of blood bathed the weeds around her. Although pale and cold, she still looked as she did when she was alive. Her lips were still red, and still pressed into a smile, as if she knew exactly what was coming to the very end.

Wyoming parted the three Marauders so he could kneel down beside her. He gently stroked her dirty hair. The grease and gelled blood clung to his fingers.

"Myne poor little Aphrodite," Wyoming said longing, "if only you could hath seen our victory . . .," he sucked in his cheeks and closed his eyes. He then tried his best to stifle his emotion, turning his gaze towards Texas who was staring back at him, trying to get his attention.

Wyoming rose to his feet and nodded to his subordinate.

Texas pulled a folded piece of paper out from his armor and placed it in Wyoming's palm. He had a look of sadness and slight confusion, "California gave this to me last night before the charge. She wanted me to give it to you."

Wyoming peered down into his open hand and stared at the folded note. He read the writing scribbled in pencil across its face.

_To: Leo_

Wyoming's eyes remained locked on the two words for over a minute. He was so focused on them that it looked to the others like he was reading his own tombstone.

Florida and Nevada nudged in closer, their eyes drawn to the tiny wad of paper.

"Leo. . .is. . .is that your _real_ name?" Texas whispered.

Wyoming looked up from the note and stared at the three Marauders in silence. His eyes began to glaze over with a film of tears and it seemed like he was having a brief, lonely, lucid moment.

"Maybe. . .," Wyoming wiped his face, "maybe that _was_ my name. .," he pocketed the note and looked away, "or maybe I just read it in a book. . .a long, long time ago."

Wyoming collected himself and began to walk away. He glanced briefly back to the three Marauders. He could tell from their eyes, that a little bit of his mystique had faded forever.

(**************************************************************)

Kylie watched the fires twinkle over the Pitt's skyline. She and the rest of her old mamluke unit were standing high atop the steel yard, watching the Marauders slowly disappear over the hills, far off in the distance. All fighting in the Pitt had finally ceased, allowing them time to breathe, relax, and reflect on what had happened.

The former mamlukes were acting as sentries, holding back the trogs and Wildmen from a large group of freed Pitt slaves. Those former slaves were huddled together around the bonfire of an old Wildman's camp, slightly down the catwalk from Kylie, like a crowd of refugees. Ray and Lance had gathered the slaves from the ruins of the Pitt and brought them back to the steel yard during the night. The two mamlukes had found nearly a hundred weary men and women roaming the broken streets and were preparing to turn them into the nucleus of a new city.

Kylie shivered on the edge of the catwalk; it was a bitterly cold morning. Her eyes rose up from scanning the pipes below for trogs and fixated on the ruins of Haven, which still glowed hot from the siege fires.

Ray walked up behind her and threw a blanket over her armor, to help warm her up from the chill.

"I know you could have just ran away. . .thank you for coming back to free us," Ray stood along side her and followed her eyes out towards Haven.

Kylie wrapped the blanket more tightly around herself, "_you_ don't have to thank me. I did it for everyone. . .including myself."

Ray smiled and leaned over the railing, staring down at the steel yard below, "_someone_ should thank you though, right?"

Kylie smiled back to him. Being next to Ray made her feel safe, yet shy like a teenager. She tried to think of something to say to him, but for a moment she was too bashful. Her mind was completely blank and her jaw was sore.

"There's not much left in this place is there?" she managed.

"No, not too much," Ray shook his head. He looked back to the slaves huddled behind him, "but we're here. The city is ours now, all of ours. We can rebuild it."

Ray looked Kylie up and down. He and Lance had become like brothers over the years, but besides him, Ray didn't have any other close friends. The other slaves and mamlukes only saw him as a warrior. Now they all had begun to look at him as the leader of their new city. Ray was uncomfortable with his newfound responsibility but shouldered it like all of his former burdens.

However, when Ray looked at Kylie, he saw a piece of himself in her, someone he could intimately relate to and trust. He continued to ogle her, dwelling on her gangly figure and her sad brown eyes.

"Are you going to stay here, with us?" Ray timidly smiled.

Kylie looked over to him, "stay here with _you_?"

Ray blushed, "yeah. We could use your help. You've got to be the bravest woman I've met. Pretty lucky and clever too. I hope you stay," he backed away from the railing, "with _me_."

He began to walk back towards Lance and the freed slaves.

Kylie smiled to herself. She had nowhere to be and no plans for the future. Her family and caravan were far, far away, and had possibly moved on. Although the city surrounding her was in tatters, so was everything else out in the wasteland. No matter where she went she would have to build up a life from a scratch.

As she watched Ray and Lance joke around with the men and women huddled by the fire, she decided that she had never seen a better place to build a new life, or a new home.

"I. . .I think I will," she muttered.

**Post Script**

Wichita slowly made his way down a narrow path through the thick Ohio forest. He was far away from the Pitt now; it lay several days back down the meandering trail. Over those few days since he had left the Pitt, the bleak and blasted surroundings had given way to the green hills and towering trees of a land where the bombs had never fallen.

As Wichita continued to follow the winding path through the woods, tiny droplets of morning drizzle began to fall down from the overcast sky. Wichita brushed the mist off his hair, he hated being wet. Wasteland attire was desert attire without question, and the fleeting moisture would ruin his arid clothes, turning them into damp, muddy rags.

The forest surrounding Wichita echoed with the innumerable taps of raindrops hitting leaves. He paused in his step to hold out his tongue to try and catch a drop of water to tease his thirst. A few hundred feet behind him, his pack Brahmin let out a long moo. He had acquired the cow just after leaving the Pitt so the girl wouldn't have to limp the whole way back to Motor City. The beast was laden with cargo, and spattered with dried blood. It shook its heavy head in the rain and dug its hoof into the now muddy trail.

The girl who had been riding on the Brahmin's back had limped out into the woods, insisting on complete privacy while she relieved herself. She had done little but complain since leaving the Pitt, and Wichita was only able to tolerate her by thinking of how handsomely he'd be rewarded.

Wichita was slightly nervous that she might try to run away from him while she was out of sight, but her wounds had not yet healed, and she would be easy for him to track down.

A large rain drop dripped down from a leaf, somewhere high above Wichita's head. It landed on his cheek; splashing into his eye and making him cringe. Wichita wiped his face and huffed to himself. He tried to cow his discomfort by thinking of the wondrous cargo King Minos would lavish upon him for returning the young princess from bondage.

As Wichita savored that thought, he noticed a black shape was lurking in the trees just ahead of him. The dark shape looked like the outline of a man, trying to stay hidden between the trees. He had a shotgun resting at his side and a twisted, almost evil smile. Wichita hadn't expected to come across anyone in the forest, he was caught completely off guard.

"Who are you?" Wichita called out to the dark shape. He began to fumble at his side, searching for his weapon, but out of carelessness, he had left his only pistol back on the pack Brahmin.

The dark man slowly approached, "I'm nothing but trouble. . ."

Thanks for reading . . . and if you took the time to read, why not write a review and tell me what you think. . . .


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